


Warrior

by Darragh_Cross (Carolan_Ivey)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Gay Relationship, Chronic Illness, DO NOT COPY, Dadkov, Did I Mention Angst?, Do not post or copy elsewhere, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, Head canon abounds, Hurt Victor Nikiforov, Hurt/Comfort, I'm spelling it Victor, In my world Makkachin is a girl, Lots of Angst, M/M, Major Illness, Original Character(s), Post-Grand Prix Final, Reference to non-canon character's past suicide, content warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 91,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolan_Ivey/pseuds/Darragh_Cross
Summary: Victor Nikiforov, with his lover (and now World Champion) Yuuri Katsuki by his side, is looking forward to his comeback season. But one early spring morning in Saint Petersburg, Victor and Yuuri realize something is seriously wrong. Something that could not only end Victor's competitive skating career, but put their relationship on thin ice. Unless they both find the strength to trust each other with their deepest fears - and cope with an avalanche of changes neither saw coming.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 171
Kudos: 162





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication:  
> For the doctors, nurses, rheumatologists, and orthopedic surgeons who have kept me alive and out of a wheelchair.
> 
> For the friends and family who support me.
> 
> For the fellow autoimmune warriors who lost their battle. You are not forgotten.
> 
> Much love and respect to netsirhc and Melissa Combs for beta reading!
> 
> \----
> 
> This is a story that's been simmering in my mind for a while, but wasn't sure if anyone would want to read something like this. Writing it has been as much of a journey of inner healing as it has been a writing journey. Yes, I have an autoimmune disease. Lifelong. Arguably, it's the reason I became a writer in the first place. Because, from early childhood, books were my only escape from a world of pain. 
> 
> I've never had the courage to bring this world into my own writing. But as I read other fanfic authors' works, I realized there's something special about these characters. Characters strong enough to bear the weight of a thousand tears shed in darkness, and bring them gently into the light. And in so doing, maybe bring light and healing to someone who needs it.
> 
> So, like many before me, I'm trusting Victor and Yuuri with my story. It's not the complete story. Never will be. But with their help, maybe someone will find a bit of hope in their world of pain.
> 
> I don't plan for this story to be all angst, all the time! There will be plenty of smiles, laughter, cuddles, floof, family, friendships, DEFINITELY some hot sex, and a touch of magic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> PS, because I've had a lot of questions about this - YES there will be a happy ending! :)
> 
> DO NOT COPY TO ANOTHER SITE.  
> Не копируйте это на другой сайт.

Early spring 2017

**_Victor_ **

I open my eyes at the crack of dawn, my mind immediately shifting into high gear. It’s months until the Grand Prix series begins, but program ideas for my comeback have been dancing in my head since well before Yuuri won his first Worlds. And I won bronze, skating by invitation from the RSU with an eye toward being seeded for the following season.

The memory of what—and who—went down after the medal ceremony still spreads a goofy smile across my face. That gold medal wasn’t the only thing I’d kissed, licked, and sucked that night.

When I roll over to gather Yuuri into my arms for a good morning kiss, I halt halfway to my goal as my body vehemently protests. Snaps. Crackles. Pops. I dig fingers into the mattress to ride it out. It’ll pass. It always does. Most mornings Yuuri and I laugh/groan our way through our morning routine until our overworked bodies loosen up. Well, okay, me more than him, as I stare down the barrel of another year closer to retirement.

This morning is different. I grit my teeth and swallow a moan as the pain burrows…deeper. Into every bone. Every joint. My muscles ache. My skin aches. Hell, even my hair aches. I feel like I’m coming down with the flu—which shouldn’t be going around in Saint Petersburg this time of year.

 _Yura is right_ , I mutter to myself. _I’m an old man_.

I will turn 29 this season. After the upcoming PyeongChang Olympics, win or lose, my competitive career will be over. I’ll miss competing, but I won’t miss the multiple quads required to stay at this level. These days, successful landings hurt almost as much as the failed attempts.

_Old man, indeed._

I’ve bulldozed my way through sickness and injury before—my third GPF gold was won wearing a knee brace, my fourth running a fever. Today will be no different. I’ll get up, down a bottle of water, and stretch through my yoga routine before prodding my sleeping beauty out of bed.

Yuuri, his body younger and less plagued with past injury, needs only a cursory stretch and several cups of his beloved sencha tea to get going. Mine needs to be enticed with the promise of hot whirlpool baths and a physiotherapist at the training facility. Which I generally reach long before Yuuri, who opts to run or bike while I reluctantly choose the relative safety of my car. I miss Hasetsu, where we could run anywhere, anytime, never bothered by the press or overzealous fans. Here in Russia, I do my best to keep the press’s attention riveted on me and away from Yuuri. It’s disturbingly easy.

I reach down to the foot of the bed to scratch Makkachin’s floofy ears, then kiss the only part of Yuuri’s skin visible under the pile of blankets and pillows—his forehead. But the irresistible scent of his warm skin has me nuzzling under his ear and peppering kisses on the back of his neck, eliciting a cascade of sleepy giggles.

As I do every morning, I take a moment to appreciate the miracle of Yuuri in my bed. In my life. Rampant rumors notwithstanding, it took months of one step forward, two steps back, three forward, two back, basically an emotional cha-cha, to bring him—us—to this point. In public, he’s the picture of Japanese reserve. When we’re alone, his laughter comes easy and I’ve become addicted to his tactile affection. Pretty easy for a man like me, who, until Yuuri, rarely received a touch that didn’t demand something in return.

He emits a _five more minutes, please?_ groan and snakes his arms and legs around me in an octopus-tight snuggle. Ow. The leg he’s thrown across my hip sends a jolt of pain across my lower back. I close my eyes tight against it, reluctant to give up his body heat, a warmth that began melting my frozen heart from the first moment I saw him. When sparks of his innate _eros_ flew off his graceful fingertips at Sochi. An energy I could swear was visible, and initially put down to lights and sequins. But oddly grew stronger, brighter, the as his frustration with his failing program mounted.

When he drew me into a champagne-fueled _paso doble_ at that post-competition banquet, I’d felt it again. Bits of fire finding and piercing my armor like heat-seeking missiles.

A heat, a touch, I didn’t realize I was starving for until that night, and thought I’d never feel again until _that video_ drew me like a siren call across a continent to feel it again. When I took his hand on that very first day in Hasetsu.

And he wrenched away like I had burned _him_.

Now, in our Saint Petersburg bed, I savor his heat, but my aching body isn’t going to let me lie in one position for long.

Yuuri’s hand slides down my back to the base of my spine. Somehow, he always knows where to find and soothe the worst hurts. I moan and stiffen, the light pressure of his hot palm oddly unbearable. He raises his head and blinks fully awake.

“Victor? Is something wrong?”

I kiss his eyelids closed. “ _Nyet, moye iskra._ Same old creakiness. Go back to sleep. I’ll start the kettle after I’ve walked Makka.”

He relaxes and releases me, and I roll to the edge of the bed, throw off the covers, and push to my feet.

Pain like I’ve never felt before stabs my ankles, shoots up my legs, and grips the base of my spine as if someone is torqueing it with a pair of pliers. I cry out and crash to my hands and knees, sweat popping out all over my skin. The pain builds. And builds. My breathing accelerates in shallow pants. My heart skips beats.

Through the haze, I hear Yuuri erupt from his nest of blankets, startling Makkachin and landing on bare feet. The bedside lamp flicks on, then he crouches beside me, his warm fingers cradling my face.

“ _Victor._ What is it?”

About all I can manage is a quick head shake. He guides me to sit up with my back against the side of the bed, fending off Makka’s frantic licks while I try to slow my respiration. Digging fingertips into the offending ankles, I dredge up a smile that I hope doesn’t resembled a gargoyle.

From the look on Yuuri’s face, I’ve failed.

“Cramp. Just a cramp,” I rasp. “I’m all right, _moya lyubov_.”

Yuuri’s worried gaze zeros in on my ankles. Settling to his knees, he brushes my hands aside and takes over, massaging with firm circular strokes. The warmth flowing from his fingertips—a phenomenon I’ve felt from no other, not even a massage therapist—is soothing, but I can’t hold back a groan. His touch transmits his anxiety and my breath catches again.

I have to be strong. I’m Yuuri’s rock, Yuuri’s port in a storm. The grounding rod to his lightning bolt on the ice.

_Pull yourself together, Nikiforov._

“You didn’t drink enough water yesterday.” It’s not a question. Yuuri springs up and heads for the kitchen, leading Makkachin by her collar. “Hold on, I’ll let Makka out and get you a Powerade,” his voice fades down the hall. Out on our balcony/sunroom, we installed a small artificial grass spot for when the weather’s too harsh to walk Makkachin. It’ll do in a pinch, though she prefers to stretch her own aging legs at the nearby dog park.

That take-charge tone in Yuuri’s voice does something pleasant and thrilling to my insides, but before I can explore the enticing possibilities, I focus on the task in front of me: getting off the floor.

 _Get up. Get UP. Walk it off._ I lever myself onto the edge of the bed. Placing my feet cautiously on the rug, I try again to stand, taking it slow.

Success.

Barely.

This is nothing like any pain I’ve felt before, even when I tore a meniscus. And why are my feet so close to my face? Confusion blooms into faint panic. It’s because I can’t stand up straight.

This is ridiculous. Yesterday I sweated through a whole day of on- and off-ice training. Not pain-free, given my age, but now…the few steps to the bathroom door might as well be a mile.

Yuuri reappears in the doorway and the concern in his dark, fathomless eyes has me cursing myself all over again. I paste a reassuring smile on my face and reach for the bottle in Yuuri’s slightly trembling hand. I twist the cap off and drink. The cold liquid relieves some of the strange heat burning under my skin.

Yuuri’s gaze sweeps me up and down, and not in the eros-hot way I’ve come to relish. His worried gaze reads me like an airport security scanner. He uncurls a fist and holds out a couple of ibuprom, which I obediently swallow with a gulp from the bottle. Then I laugh softly and reach out to ruffle his sleep-wild hair.

“It’s all right, Yuuri. I’m not dying.”

Yuuri’s expression shifts to exasperation, complete with a Plisetsky-esque eye roll. He opens his mouth to reply, but it turns into a distressed cry when I take a step.

And, incredibly, lose my balance.

An ugly Russian epithet bursts from my lips as Yuuri lunges forward, wedging his sturdy frame under my arm before I take another short trip to the floor. The bottle slips from my hand, splashing blue-tinged wetness across rug and hardwood.

“Whoa whoa _whoa,_ ” Yuuri exclaims in alarm. “Sit down. No, leave the bottle, I’ll get it. Just rest a minute.” He eases me back down on the edge of the bed, scoops up the bottle and hands it and its remaining liquid back to me. “Finish this. Your skin feels hot. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” For a second, it’s like Hiroko is in the room, scolding us for horsing around in the _onsen_. Yuuri ducks briefly into the bathroom for a towel to mop up the mess.

“I felt fine until this morning.” Not quite true. Lately I’ve been feeling my competitive age, but this is different. I sigh, reaching back to dig my knuckles into my throbbing lower back. Every joint from mid-lumbar down to my tailbone audibly pops, miniature explosions of pain. “You’re right, I didn’t take care of myself yesterday. I’ll do better today.”

Yuuri tosses the now-blue towel across to the hamper outside the closet, then gives me another long, assessing look. The corners of his mouth tighten. “I’m calling Yakov.”

I bite back the reflex to shout, gritting out instead “No, you’re not. He’ll send me to the team doctor, and I’ll lose a half day of training.” Dr. Petrov is nothing if not thorough, even requiring all athletes to submit to periodic x-rays to catch small problems before they become big ones. And keeping a sharp eye out for signs of doping and eating disorders. She’ll tie me up for hours going over me with a fine-tooth comb.

Yuuri’s brows slam together. Apparently, he thinks I’m being unreasonable. “The team doctor…”

“…can’t do anything about cramps,” I snap, then wrestle my temper under control. “It’ll pass, Yuuri.” Better. Calmer. “My body just doesn’t recover as quickly as it used to.”

“I don’t think this is ‘just a cramp’, Vitya.” Yuuri argues, taking a step closer and brushing the back of his hand across my sweaty forehead. “Will you at least let me take your temperature?”

I waver in the face of his concern. I’m still getting used to this someone-taking-care-of-me thing. In the past, I’d lug my ass to the rink come hell or bad hangover, and, as long as there was no blood, vomit, or a bone sticking out, Yakov showed no mercy. He’s softened a fraction over the years, but he’s not a hand holder.

My final season is ahead of me. I can’t afford a minute of downtime. All it could take is one well-meaning doctor to throw me off track. My body _has_ to hold up for one more year. There is simply no other option.

I will finish my competitive career on the Olympic podium, even if it breaks me.

The ibuprom must be kicking in, because this time when I push to my feet, I make it and manage to stand up relatively straight. Ignoring Yuuri’s aggravated huff, I walk toward the bathroom, conscious that I’m tottering like I’m 80. “I’ll be fine, Yuuri. See? I’m already loosening up. I’ll sweat out whatever’s ailing me in practice.”

I aim a smile at his worried frown as I close the door between us.

Then, turning my sore back, I lean on it, shaking, and close my eyes.

_What is happening to me?_

***

**_Yuuri_ **

I skate the perimeter of the practice rink, warming up for my coaching session with Victor after he’s finished jump practice with Yakov. I keep him in my peripheral vision as he works through doubles and triples, earning Yakov’s displeasure by trying out choreography sequences in between.

Something’s off. I knew it the moment he fell out of bed, and watching him now doesn’t ease my worry.

In the adrenaline rush of winning our gold and bronze medals at Worlds, I’d confided to Victor about my dream of competing on Olympic ice. I should have told him it was okay to retire after his return to this year’s GPF. Of course, no one can tell Victor Nikiforov what to do, but maybe I should have kept that particular dream to myself.

Victor alternately teases and ignores Yakov, just like always. My own grasp of Russian can’t quite keep up with their banter, but I don’t need to be fluent to recognize the familiar push and pull between them. But Victor’s infrequent grins are forced. The fluid grace and ballet-honed lines that make him appear twice as tall are absent. Not to the casual observer—to anyone else, Victor’s every move is flawless. But I know every angle and plane of his body. There’s tension, a hesitation in his movements I’ve never seen before. A shortening of extension. Gritted teeth in place of the expression of peace he wears when he’s on the ice, even when he’s just training.

Fatigue whitens his already fair skin. That bow-shaped mouth tightens into a rigid line every time he lands a jump. He actually _stumbles_ out of a triple toe, emitting a groan of pain so quiet, I only hear it because I happen to be skating near the edge of the designated landing zone at the time. Like the professional he is, he thinks he covers it up with a quick pivot into a back-edge spread eagle, but I know most of the tricks that mask his infrequent mistakes.

But the tension in the air is more than Victor’s visible signs of struggle. And that is mostly my fault.

I talked to Yakov.

I didn’t tell him everything. Just that Victor seemed off this morning and maybe he should be watched closely.

Coach Feltsman stands in his usual spot just outside the boards, his hawk-like gaze follows Victor’s every move even more closely than usual. Gauging how far he’s slipped during his season off, despite his hard-won bronze at Worlds.

Yuri Plisetsky is taking a short break, leaning against the boards near Yakov, playing with his phone like normal. What isn’t normal is the absence of his non-stop stream of insults, catcalls, and, when the mood strikes him, surprisingly on-target critiques.

From under the golden hair spilling over his forehead, one of Yura’s bright, green eyes tracks Victor as sharply as an assassin in one of his video games.

I wince inwardly. Somehow Yura must have noticed something. Which isn’t surprising…for all his fuck-off attitude, Yura is an exquisitely sensitive young man. There’s no way he’d miss the worry hanging so thick in the air you could cut it with a skate blade.

Victor lands a triple sal—successfully but not prettily—then skates toward Yakov, the only sound our blades on the ice and the chatter of a gaggle of wide-eyed new senior skaters at the far end of the rink, where Mila is holding court. I catch her glancing over her shoulder at Victor, then at me. She raises an eyebrow. _What’s wrong with him?_ I shrug in return and glide to the other side of the rink, kneeling to check my laces.

“Quads?” Victor rubs his gloved hands together in anticipation, shredding to a halt by Yakov to mop sweat from his neck and gulp from his water bottle. He glances over his shoulder at me and grins, a hint of challenge in those glacier-blue eyes. Whatever else is going on, he’s itching to reclaim his mastery over each element, to prove he’s ready for the upcoming GPF series.

Yakov hesitates, casts a quick look my way, then drops his gaze to his clipboard.

I fight the urge to sprint out of here like an Olympic short-track skater. I’ve never been much good at confrontation. Hell, the first time Victor showed up in Hasetsu to coach me, it took me weeks to look him in the eye without panic gripping my throat.

Especially after that first brush of chilly fingers that had _pulled_ at something so deep inside me it ached.

Victor doesn’t miss the subtle exchange between me and Yakov. He looks at me, and I can’t control the blush that’s surely lighting up my face like a neon sign. His expression falls into a scowl, and he takes a breath as if to start speaking. Or shouting.

Yakov hastily raises a hand to ward off the oncoming storm. “We’ll start with toe loops only. And…” the coach sets his jaw.

 _Oh shit,_ I moan to myself.

“…you’re using the jump harness.”

Yura drops his phone, the impact a sharp clack in the cavernous rink. Rather than bend to retrieve it, he freezes in place like a cornered rabbit. At the far end of the rink, Mila and the rest of the senior skaters aim curious looks our way.

Victor’s voice, deadly quiet, barely reaches my straining ears. “I haven’t needed the harness since junior level. I _don’t_ need it now.”

It takes me a second to realize they’ve both switched to English, Yakov probably making sure I know he heard me, and Victor to ensure I know exactly how he feels about my going behind his back, however well-meaning it was. I push off and skate toward the pair, dread a lead weight in my gut. Whatever happens next, it won’t be good.

Victor’s eyes meet mine, corners pinched with pain and betrayal. My throat closes. Sweat freezes on the back of my neck. I’ve hurt him.

Yakov, in a gentle tone I’ve rarely heard him use: “Vitya, every skater at every level uses them. We both know you have to be more careful, so you don’t go into your last season with an injury. I know you never stopped skating during your year off—” his jaw clenches. It’s clearly still a sore point between them. “But your body has inevitably lost conditioning. It showed at Worlds.”

Victor opens his mouth, but Yakov’s on a roll. “No, Vitya, let me finish. You didn’t just rest a few weeks between seasons. You were away from competition for nearly a _year._ As your coach—” (Subtext: _Remember,_ you _asked_ me _to take you back.)_ “—I forbid you to attempt quads without the harness.” Raising his hands in a peace gesture, “Just until you’ve got your blades back under you.”

Victor, one hand on the barrier, the other nearly crushing the water bottle, looks down then away, then back at Yakov with eyes glinting steel. Yakov’s mouth tightens. He recognizes that look. So do I.

Sliding to a stop next to them, I try to diffuse the tension. “I’ll use the harness, too, Victor. At least until I get my quad sal back up to speed.” Victor looks through me without really seeing me, something dark and desperate rising in his eyes.

“Me, too,” Yells Yura, who’s resumed his boneless-cat position draped over the barrier, phone back in his hand, one slender leg extending straight up behind him. “I don’t want a sprained ankle keeping me from wiping the ice with these _matushki_.”

A quicksilver series of expressions chases across Victor’s face. Annoyance, affection, despair, anger. I can tell than anger is winning, because his silence is like a vacuum that sucks out the light in his eyes. He never shouts or throws things; he goes unnervingly still. With icily controlled movements, he replaces the cap on the bottle and places it on the barrier, taking his time adjust it side to side, forward and back, until it’s precisely centered between the edges. Then, bracing both hands on either side of it, he favors Yakov with a slightly mad smile.

“Bet I can surprise you.”

Before I can even think to reach for him, he shoves off the wall and skates away, gaining speed with every stroke of his golden blades.

“Victor!” shouts Yakov. “Surprise me by doing what I say for once!” In Russian, but by now I know all his favorite phrases.

“ _Nyet_ , Victor!” I cry out, as if yelling it in Russian will make a difference.

“Don’t be stupid, old man!” Yura’s harsh shout ricochets off the walls. The rest of the skaters on the ice flatten themselves against the barrier to stay out of the way.

Victor says nothing, ferocious concentration shutting out everything but the jump ahead of him.

Yura, with an annoyed sound, makes a move to go after him, but I fling out a hand to stop him. To my everlasting surprise, Yura obeys. Anyone trying to stop Victor now will get hurt. They’ll _both_ get hurt.

Victor rounds the end of the rink, gaining momentum with every powerful stroke, and pivots backward on his left inside edge. I can’t hold back a gasp. He’s not doing a quad toe. He’s going for a quad flip.

_No no no no no…_

Time slows to a crawl. Yakov’s grip is white on the barrier. I clamp both gloved hands over my mouth, afraid any yelling now will be a dangerous distraction. Off to my left, Yura mutters “Tch. Stubborn ass.”

Victor, his body coiling like a spring, sinks into a deep knee bend, reaches back with his right foot, and plants his toe pick in the ice.

I shut my eyes.

***

**_Victor_ **

Rounding the end of the rink, sponsor logos on the boards a blur, I try to shut out the argument going on in my head. It’s pretty loud.

_What are you doing, Nikiforov?_

_Jump harness. He has the nerve to suggest I strap on a_ jump harness _like a beginner?_

_Two hours ago you couldn’t walk to the toilet to take a piss._

_What does Yakov think I am, twelve?_

_You’re acting like it._

_Fuck off._

_What makes you think you can flub doubles and triples then land a perfect quad? Don’t be stupid. Withdraw and regroup._

_This is what I do. I don’t withdraw. Throw myself at impossible obstacles, master them, move on. This is my last season. I’m out of time. No backtracking. No hesitation. It’s move forward to the finish, or nothing._

_Listen to what your body is telling you._

_My body does what I tell it to do. I told it to win with a 101 fever. I told it to win with a sore knee. It won’t fail me._

My arrogance makes me want to roll my own eyes, but it’s showtime. I have to know, for good or ill, if what my body is telling me—screaming at me—is true.

As soon as I vault off my toe pick and into the air, everything feels _wrong._ A bolt of pain howls up my spine, and my shoulder doesn’t come around fast enough. Ignoring the instinct to bail out, I press my crossed arms tight into my axis and _will_ my body to spin.

One rotation.

Shit, I’ve already reached the highest arc of my pathetically inadequate jump.

Second rotation.

I should open up and pop out of it. I squeeze tighter, battling the rotational forces pulling at my limbs. A battle my snarling back isn’t going to let me win.

Third rotation.

Somehow, I’ve lost all sense of where I am in space, but I’m certain I’m dangerously tilted, and I’ve run out of time and altitude. Gasping, I throw open my arms to stop this train wreck before impact. White-hot pain tells me I calculated wrong. Gravity and physics win over the best skate boot on the market. My ankle folds in a vicious wrench.

Three voices shout my name as I slam into the unforgiving ice.

****

“That was stupid.”

I lightly thump the back of my head on the team doctor’s exam table, contemplating aging ceiling panels. The rest of my body took a beating, but at least my skull is intact. Yakov paces the adjacent hallway, and Yura hovers just inside the door, trying and failing to look bored. Yuuri sits in a plastic chair, close but decidedly _not_ hovering.

“You said it, I didn’t.” Yuuri leans back, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee, regarding me with an unnervingly steady gaze. At some point after he and Yura half carried me to the exam room—without stopping to put on skate guards, I remember with a wince—he’s changed into his running shoes.

The only other thing I remember clearly is Yakov’s steady stream of quiet, calm commands, Yura’s muttered cursing of me and all my ancestors in my left ear, and Yuuri’s shaky breathing in my right.

Now, awaiting the doctor’s pronouncement of my fate, I’ve got two team jackets wrapping my upper body, and Yakov’s ridiculously bulky puffer jacket tucked across legs threatening to cramp from pooling lactic acid. Apparently all three of them deemed the team clinic blanket inadequate.

For the moment, Yuuri seems to have a tight rein on his anxiety, the only giveaway the gloves still on his hands—to prevent him from chewing nails or tearing at cuticles. I know what it takes to maintain that mask, and I instinctively ache to ease that burden. That’s my job. For over a year it’s been my job, one I journeyed across a continent to take on.

Careful not to dislodge the heavy bag of ice atop my throbbing ankle—my skate is still on until initial x-rays are evaluated—ignoring the twinge in my back, I stretch out a hand toward my lover. Yuuri sighs and takes it without hesitation.

“Ugh. Gross. I’m going to take a piss.” Yura vacates the doorway but doesn’t go far. I hear only two or three squeaks of his Vans on the tile floor.

“What were you thinking, Victor?” Yuuri’s thumb rubs small circles on my skin, and my entire body wants to sink into the warmth flowing from that simple caress, even through the glove. Beautiful almond-shaped eyes search mine.

“I don’t know.” I’m telling the truth. This isn’t the first time I’ve defied Yakov’s orders, but this…this is different. I search for words that usually trip so glibly off my tongue. “I heard ‘harness’, and something…something just…” I heave a sigh and Yuuri grips my hand tighter. “I thought I had time. I assumed I’d retire on my own terms. I guess my body is making the choice for me. And I…I’m not ready.” I can’t stop the catch in my voice. _Damn it._

Yuuri leans in, old chair creaking, his other hand joining the first to grasp mine. “We just have to figure out how to train your body smarter, not harder,” he says, so earnest and resolute it makes me smile.

“Which one of us is the coach, again?” I’m rewarded with an upward twitch of his lips.

“Yuuri is right, Vitya,” Yakov interjects from the doorway, then looks down past his crossed arms to study his shoes. “A better coach than I would have known that we couldn’t just pick up where we left off when you—” His gaze flicks to Yuuri.

Yuuri’s quiet intake of breath and flushed skin raises my hackles. Oh, _hell_ no. The choice to take a break from competition to coach Yuuri was mine, no one else’s.

Dr. Petrova strides into the room, cutting off my instinctive protest.

“Good news, gentlemen,” she says, in English for Yuuri’s benefit. With a few taps on the keyboard on the desk, she brings up my x-rays on an oversize monitor. “Nothing is broken, so we won’t have to cut the boot off Victor’s foot.”

She interrupts our collective sighs of relief by pointing a finger at the screen. “Aside from typical wear and tear common for skaters at this level and age, I see some areas of concern here...” pointing again, then switching the screen to a top view, partially obscured by the metal bits on the skate, “…and here. Once the boot is off, we’ll get better images and also assess soft tissue damage.”

I tear my gaze from the puzzle of bones on the screen, struggle against my stiffening back to sit up, but Yura appears seemingly out of nowhere to whisk the ice bag away while Yuuri strips off his gloves and attacks my laces with quick, agile fingers. Jackets pooled around my waist, I lean back on my hands to watch.

Dr. Petrova gets to work on the other skate. “Take the laces all the way out. Work quickly, because once everything is off it’s going to swell like a balloon,” she advises, looking up sharply at my quiet hiss of discomfort when she pulls the skate off what is supposed to be my uninjured foot.

Yuuri does as he is told while my stomach churns in anticipation of the pain when the boot comes off.

Whipping the lace out of the last holes, Yuuri steps back to my side as Dr. Petrova places her hands on the toe and heel of the skate on my injured foot. She looks up into my eyes. “Breathe in through your nose.”

I obey.

“Now out through your mouth. _Hard_.”

I blow out my breath, which morphs into an audible _gaahh_ as Dr. Petrova smoothly slides the boot off. It turns into a laugh when I realize Yuuri is breathing with me. He lightly bumps his elbow into my arm with a mumbled “Shut _up_.”

Socks come off next, then athletic tape parts under the doctor’s scissors. Yakov leans in to see as she peels away various pressure point foam and gel pads, then presses and prods, manipulating my foot in different directions. As promised, the outside of my ankle is rapidly taking on the shape of a grapefruit.

Yura has retreated to a corner, chin tucked in as if to keep it still. I clamped my jaw shut against the grunts of pain trying to escape.

“Don’t be so stoic,” says Dr. Petrova without looking up. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me where it hurts.”

I release an annoyed breath. “It would be easier to tell you where it doesn’t.”

Her gaze hops between my ankles, brow knit. “Are your ankles always this red and swollen after practice? How long does it last?”

“It’s been going on a while,” Yuuri interjects, his allergy to interrupting blooming on his face. “It’s better in the mornings, gets worse as the day goes on.” He shrugs at my raised eyebrow. “I notice these things. But this morning he—”

“Yuuri…” I warn.

“—could barely stand up,” Yuuri finishes, blushing harder, glaring at me. “I’m only telling her because I know you won’t.”

Yakov, expression thunderous: “You should have told me, Victor Mikhailovich.”

I wince at his parent-like use of my full name, and hunch a shoulder. “I’m old for a competitive skater. I figured it was normal. Taping and ice baths usually help.” Yuuri gives me a look. “Sort of.”

Dr. Petrova sighs in aggravation. “This swelling, redness, and heat—Yuuri, touch the back of your hand here, then here, feel the difference? This isn’t normal, Vitya.” I glance up in surprise. Until now, she has never used my first name, let alone my nickname. Her stare is piercing, yet tender. “Where else are you hurting?”

I hesitate, nervously glancing from Yuuri to Yakov. Yura’s eyes are narrowed.

“Tell her, or I will,” says Yuuri quietly. _I’m here for you, just as you were there for me._ Something deep and significant shifts between us, leaving me feeling oddly unmoored.

I cave under the weight of Yuuri’s stare. “Deep in my lower back. And sometimes I feel stiff all over and feverish, like I’m coming down with something.”

“What about your knees?” Petrova gives them a quick tactile exam, fingers skimming over the old surgery scars.

“Not so bad, now that you mention it. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Hands? Wrists? Shoulders? What about your neck?” Her fingers follow her rapid-fire questions. I barely keep up with repeated “nos”.

“But the fatigue…” Yuuri prompts.

I can’t meet his eyes. “Is bad. I’ve never had Yuuri’s stamina, but it’s been getting worse.”

Dr. Petrova nods, crisp and businesslike. “Strip, Mr. Nikiforov. You’re not leaving here until I’ve had a good look at the rest of you.” Over her shoulder, at Yakov and Yura, whose face is unreadable. “Both of you, out.” Notably, her order is not directed at Yuuri. “I’ll be back after I’ve made a phone call.”

***

**_Yuuri_ **

I give Victor’s knee a quick pat and dart after Dr. Petrova, Yakov and Yura right on my heels. At a jerk of my chin, Yura shuts the door behind him, against Victor’s surprised and slightly outraged expression.

“Doctor, you think something’s wrong, don’t you?”

Dr. Petrova hesitates. Then, quietly so Victor won’t hear: “I’m not a specialist, but there could be something else going on besides an injured ankle. Something systemic. A colleague of mine should be better able to pinpoint the problem, so I’m calling to ask her to see Victor as soon as possible. Today, hopefully.”

“Is it serious? How serious?” Yakov presses.

A quick shake of her head. “I don’t know. It could be temporary reaction to something—a virus, maybe. An insect bite. Or something gone haywire with his immune system. I’m not equipped to do the proper diagnostic tests, nor do I have the expertise. My colleague at Leningrad Regional will give him a full workup. I’ve worked with Dr. Sorokina before,” something flickers across her expression, there and gone, “and she’s the best.”

At the words “immune system”, I go slightly lightheaded. I press one hand against the wall in the narrow corridor, hoping no one notices I’m using it to hold myself up.

Fear claws at my insides, shrinking my lungs, but I shove it down, nod to Dr. Petrova. “All right. I’ll help Victor get ready.”

Yura makes an odd noise in his throat and takes off down the hall, head bent over his phone. I open my mouth to remind him not to let this out on social media, but Yakov touches my arm and shakes his head.

“He knows better,” Yakov says softly, apparently reading my mind.

He’s right. Yura needs someone right now, and I know who it is. Our secret will be safe with that stoic Kazakh. I nod and return to the exam room, with a sinking feeling that Victor’s world has just tilted off its axis. And so has mine.

\-----

<PunkIce: _Bekka. U back from practice?_

<SteppeSeq: _Just got back. DJing 2nite. U good?_

<PunkIce: _I’m ok. It’s the old man. He’s sick. I think it’s bad._

<SteppeSeq: _Are u someplace we can talk?_

<PunkIce: _Call u in 10._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> moye iskra - my spark/star  
> moye lyubov - my love  
> matuskhi - assholes  
> Any translation mistakes are my own.
> 
> This is my first work as Darragh Cross, a new pseudonym under which I plan to write, well, anything other than m/f stories. Check out my published work at www.carolanivey.com You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, and Insta.  
> \-----
> 
> Wow, I'm deeply touched by the response to Chapter 1! Thank you everyone for your kudos and comments. I really appreciate it. 
> 
> On to Chapter 2, where Victor hurts, Yuuri comforts, and Yakov does what he does best - lose his temper.


	2. Chapter 2

_The two most powerful warriors are patience and time._

_~Leo Tolstoy_

_\---_

CHAPTER 2

**_Yuuri_ **

Two hours after Victor hit the ice, he and I are crammed into the back of Yakov’s tiny Citroen, headed for Leningrad General.

Yakov steers the car through Saint Petersburg traffic with a casual disregard for near misses that leaves me slightly queasy. Yura, curled in the passenger seat, ignoring repeated orders to buckle his safety belt, keeps one hand on Victor’s leg to steady it against the swaying of Yakov’s constant lane changes. His other hand clutches a file folder full of notes and a thumb drive of x-rays from Dr. Petrova, in case the emailed copies don’t make it through. He wears a hat and sunglasses, as Russia’s Ice Tiger has his own batshit crazy—er, devoted—groupies tracking his every move.

It’s awkward to juggle my phone and text left-handed, with my other arm occupied supporting Victor’s half-asleep body, but I can’t wait any longer. Once we get to the hospital, there won’t be time.

_< kyuuri: Mom, are you busy? Don’t worry, it’s not an emergency. Not exactly. _

_< Ka-san: When you tell me not to worry, I worry. What is it? Is Victor all right?_

I cover my mouth with the back of my phone hand to stifle a soft snort of laughter. Katsuki Hiroko’s “Mom-radar” is in full working order. My smile fades as I ponder how to break this to her without making her worry more than she already does.

 _< kyuuri: Wow, that was fast. And I’m fine, thanks for asking. _ _😊_

_< Ka-san: I know something is up. Victor usually texts me at least once a day._

_< _ _kyuuri: He does?_

 _< Ka-san: We’re both working on our English. Or he’s humoring me and helping me improve mine. _ _😊_ _Seriously, I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. Is there something going on? Is he well? Wait, I’ll turn on Facetime._

Gah! No!

 _< _ _kyuuri: No, not a good time to FT._

Whew. Crisis averted; I type as fast as I can with one thumb. Voice recognition would be faster, but not here where Yakov and Yura can hear. Autocomplete is my friend.

_< kyuuri: We’re on the way to Leningrad Regional Hospital with Victor. I’m worried. He fell in practice and hurt his ankle, but I think something’s been wrong with him for a while. The team doctor said something about a possible autoimmune disorder._

_< Ka-san: Oh, Yuuri, no… Let me give you Aunt Hoshi’s phone number. I think she could help._

_< _ _kyuuri: It could be nothing, but that would be great. I know I haven’t kept in touch with Obaasan Hoshi in the past few years._

 _< _ _Ka-san: I’ll text it to you. And Yuuri, no one blames you for losing yourself in your skating. Everyone deals with grief in their own way._

My throat tightens up a little, and my swallow sounds unnaturally loud in my own ears. I glance sideways to make sure Victor is still dozing.

 _< _ _kyuuri: Thanks, Mom. That means a lot. We’re almost to the hospital so I’ve got to go. It’s going to be tricky getting in and out of there without the media catching on. Victor doesn’t fly under the radar all that well._

 _< _ _Ka-san: LOL He certainly shook things up when he was in Hasetsu. Let me know what you find out._

I close the messaging app, tuck my phone away, blink back tears. I press a gentle kiss to the top of Victor’s silver-blond head, which lies propped on my shoulder. The same spot where, it occurs to me with a twist of my heart, all those months ago I reached out to voluntarily touch him for the first time. At least, the first time I wasn’t a near basket case of anxiety.

I clench my hands against the memory of what first drove me to try to skate out my anxieties, the ice the only witness to my tears. Until the entire world witnessed my humiliation. And a younger, angrier Yura kicked salt on my open wounds as I shook uncontrollably in a men’s toilet in Sochi. He’s given me a halting, shame-faced apology since then, but the memory stings on raw wounds that took a long time to heal.

It took some maneuvering to fold Victor’s long frame into the back seat. But once I’d wedged myself into the remaining space and the car’s engine purred to life, Victor’s head had found a home on my shoulder and stayed there.

His stillness is a cold, damp fog creeping into darkest corners of my thoughts. The man leaning against me, eyes dark-circled, pulse too rapid, breathing too shallow, skin too hot, is not my Victor. My effusive, no-filters, sometimes arrogant Victor, who wears his celebrity lightly but protects his own like a Russian wolf, shouldn’t feel this breakable.

That’s my job, being the fragile one.

Memories rise like ghosts in my mind, but I ruthlessly stuff them down, my gaze tracing the length of Victor’s lean-muscled leg stretched out between the front seats.

He would have fit more easily into his own Beemer, but the media know the Hero of Russia’s car on sight. And, now that I think of it, that distinctive hair. I take off my own Detroit Red Wings cap and carefully fit it onto Victor’s head. Add sunglasses to shield those ice-blue eyes, and we have a chance of getting him to Dr. Sorokina’s office without incident. Getting out will be another story.

Rumors that Victor Nikiforov has been seen entering a hospital will spread like wildfire.

Rolling through intersections where he should have stopped, Yakov weaves the car through Leningrad Regional’s sprawling complex and pulls into a prearranged drop point at a loading dock behind one of the buildings.

I take one of Victor’s hands in my gloved fingers and squeeze. “We’re here, Vitenka.”

For once, Yura doesn’t make gagging noises at the endearment.

* * *

**_Victor_ **

It’s deep into night by the time Dr. Sorokina and her team are finished poking, prodding, pushing, pulling, bending, twisting, measuring, x-raying, MRI-ing, drawing what seems like half my blood volume, and peering into most major orifices of my body. In the past hours, I’ve thanked every doctor, nurse, and technician who voluntarily stayed well past the time they could have gone home.

The effort to keep up my public mask has left me nearly delirious with fatigue. So much so that I even thank a custodian who’s busying himself sweeping the already-clean floor near the loading dock door, and a clearly underpaid security guard hovering nearby.

On either side of my wheelchair—some hospital rules bend for no one—Yuuri squeezes my shoulder and Yura coughs to cover what sounds like a dog-cough rendition of _starik_. Yakov leads the way like the prow of an icebreaker, poised to plow through any obstacles.

“Mr. Nikiforov, wait…” The security guard steps in front of the exit, tugging at his collar and looking for all the world like he’d rather shove his equally timid companion in front of him to do all the talking.

When the guard fails to finish his sentence, the coveralled custodian, a young man with lank, dishwater hair anchored at the back of his neck, does indeed step forward, clutching his broom in front of him like a shield.

“He’s not giving out any autographs,” Yura snarls over Yakov’s shoulder. Yakov reaches behind without looking to shove Yura back.

The man lets go of the broom to wave a hand frantically. “No, no, you misunderstand! There’s a crowd of reporters and cameras waiting outside.” The guard nods jerkily in agreement. “They tried to get in, but we locked the door and waited to warn you,” he finishes in a rush, eyeing Yura as if afraid the notoriously volatile athlete will pounce.

Yuuri’s fingers dig into my shoulder, red-zone tension a nearly visible thing shimmering around him, crackling on my skin even through my clothing and his glove. He, too, has had enough of this interminable day. I lay a soothing hand on his, murmur a quick translation, and he relaxes his grip a fraction.

“ _Spasibo…”_ Yakov’s gaze drops to the man’s name tag, “…Luka. We are grateful for your help.” Turning, he leans over me to meet my eyes. “Vitya, I can call additional security to run interference—”

I use a little more of my flagging energy to shake my head firmly. “No, Yakov. You know that will only make things worse.” If I’m whisked away without a word of explanation, speculation will override the truth.

Gathering what little energy I have left, I plant my hands on the wheelchair’s arm rests and stand up, keeping my heavily wrapped and splinted foot off the floor. A strange, bubbling hiss crackles in my ears and for a second the floor tilts, causing Yuuri to make a sound in his throat and wrap a supporting hand around my upper arm. Heat from his palm penetrates his glove and my layers of clothing, making me wish we were home so I could wrap him around me like a blanket.

The attendant produces a set of crutches, which Yura promptly commandeers as if he’s the only one qualified to place them under my armpits.

 _Today, let us give thanks for painkillers._ Fortunately, the drug is mild, due to the injected nerve block doing most of the heavy lifting. Unfortunately, it makes me want to drop straight down to the concrete floor to curl up and sleep.

I glance at Yuuri, turn to pull his ubiquitous surgical mask over his nose and mouth, then tug his Red Wings cap low over his eyes, careful not to dislodge his glasses. “Stay behind me,” I order quietly, and he gives a jerky nod.

“I’m sorry, Victor,” he whispers, eyelashes lowering.

I tilt his chin up with my fingers and wait until his gaze meets mine. “We’ve talked about this, my Yuuri. No apologies, _da_?” He takes in a deep breath, nods, and the jaw under the mask firms.

With my help, Yuuri has learned to better handle press conferences and interviews, or at least tolerate them without looking like he’d rather be having a root canal. Sometimes, when the anxiety blindsides him, I draw attention to myself so he can escape without appearing rude—a Japanese cardinal sin.

I catch Yura’s eye, gesturing toward Yuuri with an infinitesimal hitch of my chin. He blinks—Yura-code for “Got it”—and unzips his leopard print jacket to reveal a shocking-purple-and-black tiger-striped tee. He flips back his hood and shakes out his mop of luxurious hair. Donning a pair of mirrored Wayfarers—likely stolen from Otabek—he assumes an insolent slouch, jams his fists into his pockets, and curls his lip into his most-photographed sneer.

“Let’s do this,” he growls.

 _Bohkh_ , I love this boy. If I ever told him so, he’d rip my head off and cram it down my neck.

Yakov rests a hand on the door’s push bar. “Ready?”

I dig down deep to find my best media-ready smile and nod like an American bull rider giving the signal to throw open the gate.

We are met by a wall of blinding camera strobes, clicking shutters, shouting voices. Flashes shoot straight through my eyeballs to the back of my brain. I force myself not to flinch. I gimp through the door to a railing surrounding a small concrete landing, Yakov and Yura shoulder to shoulder with me while Yuuri pretends to be a shadow. Yakov slips him the keys, and he doesn’t hesitate, trotting down the steps to the car as if he’s been a hired driver all his life. No one pays him any mind.

Sometimes I envy Yuuri’s ability to move through the world unnoticed. On the ice, he’s electrifying. One step off it, and uncertainty wraps its sticky web around him, sending him into hiding behind endearingly nerdy glasses, shapeless clothes, and a face mask.

Once he’s clear, I focus on the gaggle of media people jostling for position.

I raise a hand and instant silence falls. _Heh. Kiss my ass, “King” J.J._

“Thank you all for being here,” I begin. “Your support and concern are much appreciated. It has been a long day, so only a few questions, please.” I pick out a couple of friendly faces I recognize as camera flash ghosts clear from my vision. “Pavel, go ahead.”

“Will you tell us what happened, Victor? Why the crutches and the wrap on your foot?”

My face is already beginning to creak from maintaining my smile. “I suffered a simple sprain during a training session earlier today.” Understatement. “Nothing is broken; this splint is merely a precaution.” Mostly true. “I should be cleared to return to the ice in a few days.” Totally a lie. “Next? Yes, you, Nikolai.”

“How is this injury going to affect the Grand Prix series? Are you rethinking your decision to return to competition?”

I affect an amused chuckle, wag a finger at the reporter. “I know what you’re really asking, Nikolai. I am _not_ retiring.” Laughter ripples through the crowd. “The Grand Prix series is several months off yet. This is only a minor setback. But then again, I am getting old, so…” One-shouldered shrug, one-sided grin.

More laughter, more camera flashes.

“Yuri Plisetsky,” another voice calls out, “Are you here to support your rink mate, or…?”

Yuri snorts. “Just making sure nothing is going to keep Nikiforov off the ice. If Katsuki is my only competition, next season is going to be a waste of my time.” The reporters eat it up with a spoon. “Morons,” Yura mutters under his breath. I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh. Once again, the ground beneath my feet tilts; my energy is draining fast. I’ve never had Yuuri’s stamina, but it’s new experience to feel my public smile fail me.

Another voice shouts, “Speaking of Katsuki—"

Yakov detects my stiffening spine and throws a companionable arm around my shoulders to prevent the outburst boiling in my throat. “That’s enough for now, everyone. As Victor said, it has been a long day. A full statement will be issued tomorrow morning. Good night.”

By this time, a few security guards have made a belated appearance. Amid more shouted questions, we make our way down the steps to the car. A bit of a precarious operation with me on crutches and coping with camera flashes.

Yura gently stuffs me through the open car door and Yuuri receives me like a rugby player, hauling me bodily, crutches and all, across the back seat as if we’re plunging across some invisible goal line. That outsized strength of his never fails to surprise me.

Yura dives into the front passenger seat and Yakov stomps on the gas, barely waiting for the door to slam. A couple of persistent paparazzi follow but are easily left behind thanks to my coach’s preternatural driving skills.

“I’m taking you straight to your condo, Vitya,” he says. “I’ll have your car brought over later. And _no,_ Yuratchka, you are not driving Victor’s convertible.” Yura emits a half-hearted complaint as he twists in his seat to help me prop my foot between the front seats. He’s clearly trying not to look like he’s cradling it like some precious artifact.

Yakov hangs a left onto the main road back to Saint Petersburg. “Dr. Petrova has a home aide on standby…”

“We won’t need it,” Yuuri interrupts, strain in his voice superseding his ingrained politeness. His arms tighten around me, and I give him a single jerky nod, too exhausted to verbally back him up. “Er, but please tell her thank you. From us.”

Safely away from prying eyes, the last of the adrenaline that’s kept me going drains away, and I can’t control the shudders wracking my body. Yuuri shifts, easing me closer to his side.

“Lean on me,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

To my horror, a lump forms in my throat, trapping a tide of emotion behind it. I grind my back teeth together to hold it in. I wrap one arm around Yuuri’s waist and press the side of my face to his warm, solid chest, inhaling his scent like it’s the last breath of oxygen on earth.

The arms around me are strong, the heart beneath my ear slow and steady, as if all its anxiety detonators are temporarily disarmed. How he went from near-panic-attack to absolute calm is a mystery.

I run my free hand up his arm to his shoulder. “Are you all right, my Yuuri?”

He smiles down at me and pulls me closer. “I am now. Now that you’re clear of the vultures, and we’re going home where I can take care of you.”

Home. Hearing him say that single word, with no hesitation, is everything to me.

His lips touch that spot on the crown of my head, and one gloved hand combs through my hair in a caress so tender that tears sting my eyes.

We don’t yet have any answers, but I know one thing. For the first time in my life, I am afraid.

***

**_Yuuri_ **

It’s past two in the morning when I finish organizing the notes I took as I trailed Victor from one exam or scan to the next. Even at his best, he wouldn’t have remembered half of what was thrown at him today. It was all I could do to keep my own eyes from glazing over.

Yakov and Yura gave up barely an hour into the ordeal and disappeared to get coffee. At least they and other kind staff members remembered to periodically feed and water us. Some even brought homemade snacks from their own break rooms.

My phone is on silent, but when the screen lights up with an incoming text, I drop everything to answer it.

_< Ka-san: Yuuri! How is Vitya holding up? How did it go with the specialist?_

_< Yuuri: Hi Mom. We got home at 9 p.m. and he’s passed out. You should have seen the number of vials of blood they drew out of him. Shouldn’t you be asleep, too? It’s after midnight there. I thought I’d wait until morning to give you a blow-by-blow report._

_< Ka-san: I couldn’t sleep for worrying. Did you get the contact info I sent?_

_< Yuuri: Yes, thank you. I will call her as soon as we know anything._

_< Ka-san: Don’t wait, Yuuri. She may be able to calm some of your fears. And don’t shrug, I know you are. I know you’re scared. I strongly suspect Vitya is, too, but he is trying not to show you how much. Be gentle with him. But don’t let him get away with anything, either. You know how he can be._

_< Yuuri: Tell me something I don’t know._

I nudge my empty tea mug out of the way and lay my tablet, handwritten lists, phone, and glasses on the bedside table, pausing to pinch the bridge of my nose against the dull headache thudding between my eyes. I need water, sleep, and to forget what I’ve seen and heard today. I need to hold Victor, but he’s sleeping so soundly I’m reluctant to disturb him.

Earlier tonight I googled Victor’s symptoms. Big mistake. Now I know why Dr. Petrova cautioned against doing exactly that until the test results are in and we speak to the specialist, Dr. Sorokina. There’s such a thing as too much information, all of it doom-and-gloom.

Beside me, Victor stirs on a groan and slides one hand across the sheet, reaching for me. I take it and shift to lie on my side facing him as he tucks my hand close to his warm, bare chest, absently running his fingertips over my ring. My skate-sore toes find and burrow into a snoring Makkachin’s soft fur.

I prop my head on my other hand and study Victor and the wrapped-and-splinted ankle elevated on a foam wedge. Despite the sickening twist it suffered during his disastrous quad flip attempt, it is indeed just a sprain. A bad one, and who knows what micro-tears have formed in ligaments and tendons that could become an issue in the future, but I silently thank the trainer whose taping likely prevented a worse injury. It’ll be time to apply another ice pack soon. Makkachin won’t like that, and will probably move over to hog my side of the bed.

A few hours ago, I’d practically had to hold Victor’s nose to get him to swallow a painkiller, but once it was on board, he’d slipped into much-needed sleep. Remembering his boneless melting into the mattress makes my heart lurch.

The fever he’d been running has broken, the skin under my hand warm and dry instead of clammy with a fine sheen of sweat. I note the bruise on one of his elbows and make a mental note to apply some arnica cream later.

A crease forms between his eyes and he again shifts on the bed, emitting another bone-deep groan.

“Hey,” I say softly. His eyes slit open, blue irises dull in the light filtering through the cracked bathroom door. Even that dim glow seems almost too much for him. “It’s been four hours. Time for another dose.”

His head edges briefly from side to side and he mumbles something in Russian, his brain too muzzy to shift languages. It takes no great skill to translate. _Don’t want it_.

I find a smile buried under my worry and give it to him, brushing hair back from his forehead. “I know you don’t _want_ it, but you _need_ it, Vitenka. Just one more, okay? It’ll help you sleep. Tomorrow you can be a tough guy. Deal?”

He sticks out his lower lip in a little pout, then raises my hand to his lips to kiss my fingertips, awake enough now to switch to English. “’Kay. Need off my back. Killing me.” He sounds like his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth.

I fetch him a pill, and after he’s washed it down I settle him on his side, efficiently packing pillows around him so nothing’ll be in a weird position he’ll regret later.

Victor’s face scrunches into a frown as I pack a pillow along his lower back. “Ahhh, Yuuri…no. Take that one off. Off!” He squirms as if something’s burning him, and I snatch the pillow away, dismay seizing my heart.

“I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?”

He reaches for my face, not quite making it. I grab his hand and hold it gently.

“No, no, it’s not you, love. I just…can’t stand any pressure there. It’s like…a knife…” He halts and breathes shallowly for a few moments. I fight to keep my hands where they are, holding his—the urge to comfort, to touch, to ease what hurts, is overwhelming. He’d said his back was sore, but this isn’t post-workout, massage-me-there sore.

_Focus, Yuuri. Focus._

As I try to stay calm and wrack my brain for what to do next, Makkachin, from her position curled around his feet, raises her head and whines softly. Her thick, soft, curly fur catches the lamplight.

“Can I try something?” This may not work either, but both Makkachin and I can’t stand feeling helpless in the face of Victor’s pain.

“Anything, Yuuri. I trust you.” Victor pulls my hand to his lips and kisses it. My heart breaks a little.

Letting Victor go, I begin patting the mattress right behind his back, beckoning to Makka. “Up here, girl. Your papa needs you.” Her floppy ears pitching forward, eyes lighting up, Makka scrambles to obey, stepping carefully over his legs, settling behind him, letting me position her until her warm body fits against the small of his back. She tucks her feet neatly beneath her and lies perfectly still, bright eyes fixed on mine.

Victor makes a small sound of relief, his body easing into relaxation against the pillows and Makka’s support. As I pull the sheet and blanket up over both of them, Victor finds a chuckle and offers it to me.

“Where did you learn to do this, Yuuri? I didn’t get this much attention to detail when I had my knee repaired.”

I freeze for a second, the tingles turning to pinpricks, then return to tucking him in. How do I tell him when I learned to make a pain-weary patient comfortable? I can’t. He’ll ask too many questions, and the answers will reignite the fear I saw in his eyes at the hospital.

He probably thinks he hid it behind a doggedly sunny disposition and a nearly manic desire to put everyone around him at ease. But I saw it, glinting glass-sharp in his eyes, in the smile that fell away when he thought no one was looking. In the swallowed panic when the needles appeared.

I have to answer him with something. Focusing on my task with the pillows, I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t remember. Probably from one of the massage therapists who sometimes come to the _onsen_.”

At the mention of my family’s hot spring, Yu-topia Katsuki, Victor’s long arm shoots out of the nest of pillows and blankets, groping for his phone.

“I just remembered I haven’t texted _Okaasan_ since…God, has it been two days? She’ll be worried…”

I grab his hand and tuck it back where it belongs, then subtly move his phone out of easy reach.

“Don’t. It’s too early there. I’ve been keeping the family posted,” I tell him as I leave the room to grab an ice pack. Returning to wrap it around his ankle, I squint at him. “ _Okaasan_? Really? You call _my_ mother Mom?”

Victor, subsiding back into the pillows, closes his eyes and grins. “Well…yes. After all I _am_ her favorite son.” I shouldn’t laugh at his self-satisfied tone, but I do.

“You’re the worst.” I plop the last pillow over his face and he bats it away, still grinning. It’s good to see that irrepressible humor resurfacing, however subdued. He opens his eyes, his gaze tracing my face, and that sleepy smile fades.

“Come here, _moya lyubov_. Let me hold you until I sleep.”

 _Yuuri, hold my hand until I sleep._ The memory of a sweet voice, wobbly with fright, rips free and twists a knife in my heart. As usual, my face does that I-suck-at-poker thing. Victor lifts his head off the pillow and reaches for me, concern creasing his brow.

“What is it, Yuuri?”

I shake my head and quickly slide under the covers to fit my back to his front, pulling that reaching arm around me. “Nothing. It’s…I’m just hitting the wall. Go back to sleep.” Through my baggy t-shirt, his body heat reassures my quaking stomach he’s okay. He’s fine. He _has_ to be fine.

Victor’s warm lips touch the back of my neck twice, three times. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he says in a way that brooks no argument. He lays his head back down on the pillow and his breathing steadies as the pain pill kicks in.

Counting those precious breaths, I stare at the wall until dawn.

***

**_Victor_ **

When I step onto the ice, I’m braced for Yakov’s tantrum.

No one needs to tell me that while one week might be a normal rest/ice/elevation phase for sprained ankle treatment—actually longer than normal—not knowing what else is going on inside my body makes this injury anything but normal.

What “they” don’t realize is, no treatment will work if the patient is climbing the walls of a padded room. Yakov should know this—after my knee injury, he practically sat on me himself to keep me off the ice for the required healing time.

Whatever my shortcomings as Yuuri’s coach, I do the job better beside him on the ice, not yammering from rinkside. Yesterday, I leaned so far over the wall, studying Yuuri’s every move, that I came within a hair’s breadth of doing a face plant. Worse, without the benefit of the workout warming my muscles in rink’s chilly air, it had taken nearly an hour in a hot bath to stop the shivering.

Now I know why Yakov’s always dressed for an Arctic expedition.

This morning, I grabbed my skate bag as I crutched my way out the door, informing Yuuri’s raised brow that I was just “getting the blades sharpened.”

At the training facility, after catching me hiding in a corner with a trainer taping my ankle, Dr. Petrova rolled her eyes and took over the job herself. The extra bulk inside the boot feels clunky, but I’m not doing anything fancy today. No jumps, spins, or even a pointed toe, not for a while yet. Barely any weight-bearing at all—I can glide around on one foot as easily as two.

Getting out of all this tape and wrapping later is possibly going to require a Stryker saw and a jaws-of-life.

The nerve block wore off several days ago, and the pain is, well, tolerable. Not triple-jump tolerable, but standing-upright tolerable. My lower back is another story. As I skate in slow, even strokes, I breathe through its dire threats of throwing a spasm that will bend me over to kiss my knees. _Mental note: next time, more stretching, less sneaking around._

I don’t plan on doing anything but supervise Yuuri’s practice. I just want… _need…_ to feel the ice under me again. Beneath my moving blades, it whispers welcome. And maybe an apology for the scrapes and bruises. Bending to stretch my back, I reach down and pat it, greeting an old friend.

Straightening, I slowly cross my skates to round the end of the rink, feeling every minor torque pulling at my lumbar spine. This is crazy. Just a few days ago I could land a triple axel in my sleep. Now I’m skating like I’m 80. It takes conscious effort to straighten my shoulders out of their defensive hunch.

I look up and catch the tail end of Yuuri’s exasperated expression right before he pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. Mila and the new crop of senior skaters have deer-in-the-headlights expressions. Georgi, if he were here, would have eyes welling with emotional tears, but he’s gone, transitioning to a professional career in ice shows. Maybe he should have waited. At this moment, my skating career seems as far out of reach as the moon.

Yura emits a low, evil laugh. Probably preparing to enjoy the view when the top of Yakov’s head pops off. There’s a commotion to my right as Yakov crashes through the rink gate and barrels toward me, surprisingly quick on his non-slip soles for a man his age.

People tend to forget the number of medals he racked up in his day. Beneath layers of thermal clothing and puffer jacket, he’s still pretty much solid muscle.

“What part of _rest and elevate_ don’t you understand, Nikiforov?” he roars.

Ahhh, it’s good to be back.

***

**_Yuuri_ **

Yura, Mila, the rest of the new seniors and I find reasons to stay safely at our end of the rink while Yakov gives Victor the dressing down to end all dressing downs, every whip-crack Russian syllable emphasized with a finger alternately pointing down at his ankle and up within an inch of his face.

Victor gazes down at his coach from his superior height, head slightly tilted, expression soft with affection. Which seems designed to make Yakov madder. It’s working.

Blade sharpening, my ass. I should have known better. But one look at the bliss—almost relief—on Victor’s face when he stepped through the gate, and my protests died on my tongue. Watching him now, listening absently to Yakov rant, one hand at his lower back unconsciously digging knuckles in against the pain, a truth comes out nowhere, reverberating in my thoughts.

If anything can heal Victor—his mind, if not his body—it’s the ice.

I don’t know how long I stand stock still, turning that thought over in my head, but when I blink back to awareness, Yura and the others are off somewhere, and Victor is skating toward me, his movements smooth, if a little too careful and favoring that sprained ankle. The serenity resting on his features tells me everything I need to know about what he needs.

Whatever the future holds, I vow to keep Victor on the ice. No matter what it takes. Because if he loses the ice, I could lose _him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> (For brevity's sake, I plan to list only words and phrases that haven't been previously noted. As always, translation mistakes are my own.)  
> spasibo (съпаси) – thank you  
> bohkh (Бог) – god  
> Ka-san – Mom (familiar)  
> Okaasan – Mom (formal)  
> Obaasan – Aunt  
> starik (старик) – old man
> 
> \---
> 
> Note: I want to echo the tags provided above, that while there are dark times ahead for Victor and Yuuri, a happy ending is guaranteed. :)
> 
> Also, netsirhc and Melissa Combs are beta reading goddesses.
> 
> Hold on to your hats, cats, Chapter 3 gets upgraded to "Explicit"! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always and forever, thanks to netsirhc and Melissa Combs for beta reading! <3
> 
> Please note: The story's rating has been changed to EXPLICIT.

_Laughter is poison to fear.  
~George R.R. Martin_

* * *

**_Victor_ **

I watch Yuuri practicing his new transition, gliding on the slower inside track where I’m less likely to get in his way, when something clatters behind me. Yuuri, instead of launching into an axel from a spread eagle, glances past me…then skids to a halt and raises a hand to his mouth to stifle a crack of laughter.

“What…” I start to pivot to see what Yuuri’s looking at, but he shoots out a hand to stop me.

“Don’t,” he sputters. “Don’t look.” The shadows that have lived in his eyes for the past few days are gone, replaced by the lively sparks I’ve missed.

I pivot anyway, suspecting that there’s a prank in progress. I am not disappointed. Yura is skating toward us, a half-smirk on his lips and a gleam in his green eyes, as he shoves an old plastic chair in front of him across the ice. Behind him, Mila tries and fails to act like she’s not about to collapse from laughter. The new seniors smile hesitantly, checking with each other to ensure it’s okay to laugh at _the_ Victor Nikiforov.

“Hey! Got something for you.” Yura gives the chair a push, sending it in a slow skid-and-twirl in my direction. It’s festooned with a bottle of geriatric vitamins, a horrendous fake hairpiece, a donut cushion, a folded walking cane, reading glasses, and a several adult diapers flapping in the breeze.

In other words, a senior citizen survival kit. _Reserved for the Old Man_ is taped to the back rest. In English, because Yura is considerate that way, I think to myself with a mental head shake.

Yura must see something on my face—or maybe on Yuuri’s—because for a second his smart-ass bravado falters, quickly covered up with a _you’d better laugh, asshole_ chin jut _._ Yuuri’s fingers tighten on my arm.

I let my face split into a wide grin and send a belly laugh booming across the rink. Yuuri’s hand relaxes.

The next several minutes are spent with Yuuri taking pictures of me sitting on my “throne” in my best mafia fanfic pose, with Yura, Mila, and the rest of the seniors draped over and around me in various positions of languid, submissive sensuality; me wearing the glasses and squinting at the bottle label; me attempting to deploy the cane (and failing); and me rocking the cushion on my head like a _haute couture_ hat. For a few minutes, the nervous tension that for several days has permeated the atmosphere eases.

“Vitya.”

Yakov’s quiet, commanding voice cuts through the hilarity, sending Mila and the others scrambling to get back to work. The voice lands on the back of my neck with an almost physical weight, like a hand, like the way he used to offer wordless comfort when I was a struggling junior skater flailing against my rapidly growing limbs.

“Come with me, Vitya. Please.”

It’s the _please_ that brings me up short and chills the grins from Yuuri and Yura’s faces. That’s a word I can’t say I’ve ever heard issue from Yakov’s mouth. At least not in my direction.

Yuuri and Yura stick close by, Yuuri skating in small circles with one eye trained on me, and Yura kneeing the back of the chair toward the sidelines.

Yakov opens the barrier as I approach. I stop at the threshold and wait for him to meet my gaze. When it does, and he murmurs, “Dr. Sorokina is waiting to see you,” I turn immediately and look for Yuuri. He’s already coming for me, and so is Yura. Yakov gives me a pained look, but I shrug helplessly.

He rolls his eyes and waits while the three of us to change into street shoes. I don’t have to look to know Yuuri’s anxious gaze is on me. I feel it. Finished, I take Yuuri’s hand in mine and Yura practically treads on our heels as we follow Yakov through the complex’s rabbit warren of hallways to a private conference room.

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

I don’t know what strings Dr. Petrova pulled to get the specialist from Leningrad General to come to the training facility and spare Victor having to run a media gauntlet, but I’m grateful. But I can’t think of a worse place to have this conversation. A grey, windowless conference room lit with harsh, overhead fluorescent bulbs. There’s seating for four around a circular table. There are six of us crammed into the cramped space, Yakov and Yura standing behind me and Victor, propped against the wall.

“I don’t understand.” Victor shoves a hand through his hair, staring at Dr. Sorokina as if hearing the words again will make them any less devastating. “It’s a virus. I’ll get over it in a week or two, right?”

Agitation rolls off him in jagged waves. It’s a wonder he had the presence of mind to ask those present to speak English for my benefit. My Russian is improving, but only in relation to the skating world. And ordering at Starbucks.

Dr. Sorokina, Dr. Petrova sitting at her elbow, folds her hands in front of her on the table, the warmth in her expression a stark contrast to our cold surroundings. Her entire demeanor is gentle and patient as if she’s repeated this script a thousand times. If the gray in her short-cropped hair and lines on her careworn face are any indication, she probably has.

“I said your condition could have been _triggered_ by a virus, Mr. Nikiforov. We don’t actually know what brought on your symptoms, only that they and the markers in your blood tests point to an autoimmune disease called ankylosing spondylitis.”

I notice his involuntary flinch at the word “disease” only because, under the table, his thigh is pressed against mine. I scribble the words on my note pad, hoping to get the spelling close enough to Google it later.

“But I haven’t been sick. Not lately,” Victor sits back, crossing his arms.

Sorokina nods, skillfully ignoring the stubborn angle of his chin. “I believe you. Again, we don’t know why your immune system misfired. In fact, we may never know. It’s different for everyone—an infection, an injury, severe stress, or nothing discernable at all.”

It’s my turn to flinch inwardly at “severe stress”. Victor’s effort to claw his way back to competition form has not been easy. A result, obviously, of his taking a year off to coach me. Guilt stabs my conscience.

“What we do know,” Sorokina continues, “is that a faulty genetic code has been activated, tricking your immune system into attacking healthy tissues as an enemy that must be eliminated. In other words, your body is attacking itself, with predictable results—pain, inflammation, fever. The problem is, the ‘threat’ never goes away, and the harder the immune system tries to eliminate the threat, the worse your symptoms become.”

“So…” Victor’s voice cracks. “It’s…it’s never…I’ll never get better.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Sorokina says quickly. “If you’re treated early, your chance for a normal life is quite good. You may even go into remission.” She leans forward, looking Victor directly in the eye. Her next words fall with devastating weight. “But there is no cure.”

I swallow an involuntary moan. Victor stares down at the floor, arms tightening across his chest as if holding in something titanic. A heavy ball of barbed wire forms in my own chest. I’m having trouble breathing around it. I can’t give in to it, or even reveal my distress with so much as an eye blink—Victor needs me to stay focused, because one sideways glance at him tells me he’s checking out of the conversation.

“You’ll need lifelong treatment,” she continues. “And you’ll have to be monitored for other conditions, as well. AS is systemic. Chronic, unchecked inflammation can affect your entire body. Your eyes, your voice box, the tiny bones of your ear that affect hearing and balance, even internal organs like your kidneys, lungs, and heart.”

At that, Victor slides a hand over his mouth. I can almost see the worst-case scenarios dancing in his head. They’re certainly doing a terrifying vampire tango in mine.

I clear my throat and lean forward. “So, what happens now, Dr. Sorokina?” Victor snaps out of his fugue and stares at me, probably as surprised as I am that I’m speaking up. Sorokina nods encouragement, though she gives me a puzzled look.

“You are Mr. Nikiforov’s friend?” There is no sign of a significant, condescending pause before the word “friend”, nothing but kindness in her expression and tone.

I take a deep breath. “Yes. My name is Katsuki Yuuri. Victor is my coach. He and Yuri and Coach Feltsman are, well, we’ve been friends…for a while.” Okay, my relationship with Yakov isn’t exactly chummy, more like grudging respect. I can’t stop the blush I can feel blistering my face and under my collar as all eyes in the room focus on me. On the ice, I revel in the attention. Here in this enclosed space, I feel like a bug pinned under a microscope. Naked.

Sorokina nods as I turn the page of the same notebook I’d used during Victor’s first round of tests. Writing down what Victor will need to know redirects my attention away from my pounding heartbeat and sweating armpits.

Sorokina smiles. “I remember you from the other day, Mr. Katsuki. The support of friends and family is vital at times like this. You may use your phone to record what we talk about, so you can both focus on listening.” Her expression softens. “I know this is a lot to take in all at once.”

I grip my pen tighter, trying to come up with words to explain why I need the weight of it in my hand to keep my mind anchored. A cell phone slides onto the table beside my elbow.

“I’m on it, katsudon,” Yura mutters. The phone is already in record mode, and I can see by the time stamp he’s been recording since we walked in. Relief washes through me, and through our touching legs, I feel a subtle tremor run through Victor’s body. I take one of his hands in my free one and meet Dr. Sorokina’s gaze, my pen poised over paper.

She slides a thick file folder in front of her and flips it open. “Then let’s begin. You have some decisions to make, Mr. Nikiforov.”

* * *

**_Victor_ **

Yuuri squeezes my hand, a warm tingle curling from his palm to mine, pulling my downward-spiraling thoughts back to the surface as the doctor slides a list across the table toward me. I nudge it sideways so Yuuri can see it, too. Yakov and Yura hover over my shoulder to take a look.

“Until the inflammation in the affected areas—ankles, hips, SI joints, lower back—is under control, your training regimen will need to shift to strictly non-impact activities.”

My public face is impeccable. I do not gape. But I’m gaping now. “I thought I’d…” I pause to clear my throat. “…I’d have to retire.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “I see no reason to give up hope, Mr. Nikiforov. You are in phenomenal shape, an elite athlete. I did a clinical in sports medicine way back when, and I’ve read through your history.”

She leans forward, as if it’s a subject about which she can geek out. “While you’re taller than the average skater, the unusual abundance of fast-twitch fibers in your muscles allow you to achieve what others with the same build can’t. But that achievement comes at a price—your body takes more of a pounding than a skater of, say, Mr. Katsuki’s or Mr. Plisetsky’s size. And, as you already know, endurance isn’t your strong suit.”

Yuuri and I share a brief, wry half-smile.

“Our goal,” she continues, “is to maintain your fitness level and preserve joint health while we’re pinpointing which treatments will work best for you. Before any permanent damage occurs.”

Her gaze catches mine, eyes turning serious. “Make no mistake, it will not be easy. Even if—when—they work, the meds are not a panacea. But you may yet return to competition, if we’re lucky.”

Yuuri, scribbling madly in his notebook, pauses and looks up. I almost smile at the hope glowing in his amber-brown eyes. “Lucky, how?”

Dr. Sorokina puts the next page in her file folder down and clasps her hands again, an attitude I’m beginning to recognize as _I’m about to teach you something_. “Autoimmune diseases in all their forms are slippery devils, very difficult to pin down. There is no one-size-fits-all treatment, even for those with the same diagnosis. Each person’s immune system is as unique as a fingerprint—what works for one patient, or even a number of patients, won’t necessarily work for you.”

“Which means…” Yakov prompts in his imperious, _give me answers now_ tone.

“At your clinic visit, we performed a number of state-of-the-art tests designed to narrow down which medications have the best chance of working, but there are a few more tests I’d like to try. New ones, experimental.”

More needles. Perfect. As if the last round hadn’t already qualified me as a human pincushion. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. Yuuri must sense my reaction, because his hand squeezes again. His warm skin on mine is a lifeline.

Yakov inhales like he’s about to speak again, but the doctor continues as if anticipating the next question. “Even with the best information, finding the right medication will take some trial and error. We will start you on medications that will give you some relief fairly quickly, but have their own issues with side effects. So, our goal is to find which of the newer meds will work for you over the long term. That will take some guesswork.”

“Throwing things at it and seeing what sticks,” I muse. Behind me, Yura snorts quietly, probably remembering a certain Unfortunate Pasta Incident in my kitchen.

Sorokina’s mouth quirks. “Precisely. Or, imprecisely, to be more…precise. But I am confident we _will_ find something.”

“How long will this take?” Yuuri’s voice is steady, but the tip of his pen betrays a slight tremor in his hand. His anxiety must be tearing at him. I lace my fingers with his, resisting my instinct to get him out of this tiny, stifling room. He would not thank me for it.

The doctor gives a quiet sigh. “This is another question that is difficult to answer. Some patients are very lucky and find their ‘magic bullet’ on the first or second try. Others take many months of trial and error.”

“Months!?” Yakov erupts. “The Grand Prix series…”

“Yakov.” I reach for him with my free hand and touch his arm , my own stomach twisting. “Let her finish.” To my surprise, he subsides with a frustrated noise in his throat.

“Here is where my questions for you begin, Mr. Nikiforov,” says Sorokina. “Ordinarily we start a patient with older treatments that have been around for decades, which may do the trick. But it will take at least three months on each one—or combinations—to find out if they’ll gain any traction. Or, we go straight for the big guns, the newest medications, that have a good short-term track record—again, _if_ they work. If they do, they’ll work more quickly.”

I open my mouth, but she raises a hand to stop me. “Don’t answer yet. The downsides of these newer meds are:” she holds up a finger. “You may be allergic to an ingredient.” Two fingers. “They are all administered either by injection, which is quick and convenient but can be painful, or by infusion, which can take several hours.” Three. “They can be hard on your liver, so if you drink, you’ll have to stop.”

Yura coughs into his fist.

Sorokina raises a fourth finger. “You could get compression fractures in your spine and elsewhere.” She has to use her thumb. “You’ll be more susceptible to serious infection, requiring extra precautions when you’re in public, and…” Is she going to have to use her other hand? “…the side effects can range from nearly non-existent to fatal.”

She says it so matter-of-factly, the impact doesn’t register at first. When it does, I automatically turn to Yuuri. He’s looking down, knuckles white on his pen. My head on a swivel, I look to Yakov. He’s running a hand through his sparse hair, eyes haunted. Yura is pale, mouth hanging open like he can’t believe what he’s just heard.

“Yuuri…” I whisper.

When Yuuri raises his face to me, it’s surprisingly calm as he gives me an encouraging smile. “It has to be up to you, Vitya,” he says softly. “I’ll be there for you, whatever you decide.”

Dr. Petrova speaks up, her expression a mix of compassion and determination. “We all will. You must understand that fighting this disease while returning to a full training schedule will be brutal on your body. If you’re prepared to endure it to return to competition one last year, we’ll make it work, Victor.”

 _Staying by me._ Damn it, I can’t cry now. I suck a breath deep into my lungs, hold it, let it out.

“You don’t need to decide right now, Mr. Nikiforov,” says Sorokina. “The sooner we start the better, but if you need some time—”

“No,” I cut in. “I don’t need time to think. I want the aggressive treatment.” Somehow just saying it out loud clears my head. Coming to a decision. Choosing a path. I’ve always worked better with a goal in mind. The more unreachable, the better. This one has the added bonus of being a moving target.

The doctor gives a satisfied, businesslike nod and extracts three pamphlets from her folder. “Very well. Here are the three medications that I think give you your best shot. I’ll go over the pros and cons of each one, but the choice will be yours, Mr. Nikiforov. Also,” she pats a plastic case about the size of a shoe box on the chair beside her, “I’d like to do another blood draw, and give you some localized steroid injections in your back to relieve pain.”

Yakov bristles. “Steroids?”

I feel blood drain from my face. Of all the competitive pressure I’ve endured, the Russian sports machine’s relentless drive to dope athletes onto the podium has been the toughest to fend off. During competitions, I never consume any food or water unless it comes from Yakov’s hand.

Dr. Petrov hastens to explain. “Not anabolic steroids. This is a corticosteroid mixed with lidocaine. Completely ISU legal, and in any case it’ll be well out of your system before your first competition. It’s not something we can use often, but as a stop-gap, it’s a good occasional tool.”

Yuuri squeezes my hand. “It’ll be okay. As long as you don’t come to rely on it, it’ll be fine.” How he knows this, I have no idea, but between his earnest brown eyes and Petrov’s reassurance, my defenses stand down.

I nod reluctantly. Yakov subsides, muttering something down at this crossed arms.

Satisfied her audience isn’t about to launch a full revolt, Sorokina continues. “The shots will make you _feel_ better, temporarily, but that’s not permission to launch a quad. Or even a double. In the gym or at the barre, no jumping. When rehearsing, keep your blades _on the ice._ Strength and flexibility are your mantras for now.”

It’s almost too much. Less than a week ago I was a healthy athlete, my body following wherever I aimed my mind. Now I’m a patient, choosing a potentially deadly weapon to fight my own body. I accept the first brochure she passes to me, letting go of Yuuri’s hand to slip my arm around his tense shoulders.

“Please, Dr. Sorokina. Call me Victor.”

* * *

“Yuuri.”

Yuuri ignores me, alternating between hovering and zipping here and there like a hummingbird on crack. Since the moment Yakov dismissed me for the day—a miracle in itself, because his usual remedy for whatever’s bothering me or annoying _him_ is to throw me out on the ice and work me till I drop—Yuuri’s been perpetual motion, taking care of my every need and anticipating some I didn’t actually want.

“ _Yuuu_ riii…” This usually snags his attention and/or makes him blush to the roots of his hair. This time it has no effect whatsoever.

He pauses by the couch, talking to himself in Japanese as he tucks a blanket around my aching legs, stuffs one pillow under my battered feet, another behind my back where the skin is still tender from six different needle jabs. I make a grab for his arm, but he’s already headed for the kitchen, presumably to make tea. Or food. Or something else I’m not hungry for right now. Right now, I just need—

“Yuuri!” I twist right, looking for him over my shoulder. So, when he abruptly speaks into my left ear, I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Are you okay? Warm enough? I can get you another blanket. Or a pillow? Maybe an ice pack…”

The worry in his eyes pierces my heart. The lid he’d held on his anxiety during the session with Dr. Sorokina is clearly springing leaks. “I’m _sweating_. Can you just—”

“Of course!” The blanket disappears and so does Yuuri. My fingers close on empty air. _Chert poberi._

He’s racing for the bedroom. “A pillow, then. And I’ll put ice in the tea…”

I sigh and lever myself off the couch, where he’d herded me like an Australian cattle dog as soon as we’d entered our condo. Not having cooled down properly after Yakov had called us to the meeting, I’m feeling the stiffness now. Yuuri and Yura, to my embarrassment, had to help me get up from the chair in the conference room. At which point I’d placed my hands on the table, waistband slightly lowered, shirt pulled up, and held Yuuri’s unwavering gaze while I once again impersonated a pin cushion.

When Yuuri emerges from the bedroom, I’m ready for him.

“Ha! Gotcha.” I snake my arms around him from behind, trapping him and the pillow he’s got clutched to his chest.

“Victor, what are you doing? You should be resti—”

“Yuuri.” My tone is firm. I’m not angry, but I know what this kind of agitation does to him if allowed to escalate unchecked.

“But—”

There are tears in his throat. I hold him tighter, anchoring him, praying I can help him not to cry. Dealing with tears has never been my forte. “Stop and breathe, my love. Just…” I prop my chin on his shoulder and inhale, and he almost unwillingly inhales with me. We hold it for a slow count of five. “…breathe.” I exhale the word, and he lets his breath go.

After a few repetitions, he turns in my arms and leans into my chest, still far from relaxed. “I’m scared. For you.”

I smooth my hands up and down the tight muscles of his back. “Everything’s going to be all right, Yuuri.” If possible, he tenses even more.

“You can’t promise that. I heard what the doctor said. I have…had—” he seems to stop himself from saying something else. Or maybe he’s struggling not to cry. He releases his death grip on the pillow and slips his arms around me. “Why…why do you seem so…okay with this?”

I tilt my head back and laugh, then sigh and look to the ceiling for wisdom that isn’t forthcoming. “I’m not. Maybe it just hasn’t sunk in yet. Or maybe, now that I know what’s wrong and have a course of action, know that there’s hope, I can focus on something else.” I hug him tighter and bury my nose in his hair. “Like helping you through this.” Because something about this situation isn’t just bothering him, it’s terrifying him.

He draws back, grabbing the pillow before it falls to the floor, lowering his face and picking at a stray thread in the pillowcase. “I should be the one helping you.”

I rub both hands up and down his upper arms. “You are, just by being here. We’ll help each other, _da_? Now, let’s talk about me.” Yuuri huffs out a laugh at the memory of that painfully awkward chat on a Hasetsu park bench. “Or, better yet, us. Our legs need some tender loving care, so how about we both…”

In an eyeblink, he’s tossing the pillow through the bedroom door and moving again.

“I should have worked on your legs the first thing,” he mutters in self-derision as he disappears into the master bathroom. “Sit down while I get the hot water running. Oh, and I should get Makka from the sitter…”

I groan and smack my forehead. Then, an idea forming in my head, I follow him into the bathroom as quietly as my gimpy legs will allow, closing the door behind me with a decidedly forceful click. He whips around so fast his glasses almost fly off.

“Makka is well into her afternoon nap time. We can pick her up later.”

Yuuri catches the half smile on my face, the deliberate tilt of my hips. Misses the pain-tightened corners of my eyes. His face flushes and his wire-taut body begins to soften by gradual, beautiful degrees. “You,” he croaks, then pauses to clear his throat, pointing an index finger at my chest. “ _You_ are a _very_ naughty patient.”

I push out my lower lip, advancing the few feet between us to rest my hands on his waist. God, he smells divine. All clean, healthy sweat and something uniquely _him._ He hates post-workout stickiness and usually heads straight for the shower, but I could bury my face in the crook of his neck and just breathe for hours.

“Maybe it’s because my nurse won’t stand still long enough for a kiss. I’m feeling quite deprived.” I’m rewarded with Yuuri’s full-body sway toward me. _Yes._ Seduction is making a dent in his anxiety. Sometimes the last thing he wants is to be touched. Others, like now, it’s the only cure for whatever’s gripping his mind.

He slides a hand up my chest, tilting his head back, eyes half-lidded. “Maybe if you’d do as you’re told…” he suggests.

I grin, brushing my thumb along his jawline, right where I’d like to lick. “Ask Yakov how well I follow orders.”

“Aaand there goes my hard on.” Yuuri spins away to check the temperature of the water, but there’s laughter in his voice. Another excellent sign. And an excellent view of his magnificent ass as he leans into the massive, spaceship-like steam shower/spa to adjust the temperature. Despite the stiffness in my back, my mouth waters.

While his back is turned, I shed my warmup jacket and whip my shirt off over my head, intending the bare-skin surprise to deepen his pretty blush. _That,_ I realize too late, is a mistake. My sore back protests the quick movement. I bite my lip, my hand instinctively pressing against the spot, but Yuuri turns around before I can mask the pain. I raise a hand to forestall yet another round of _What’s wrong? Are you all right?_

“I have come to a decision,” I announce regally, working my voice around the fiery ball of pain in my back. “I will cooperate and submit to therapy, but only if my nurse joins me.” Yuuri finally seems to get the message to _stop hovering, damn it._

He rolls his eyes and comes to me, getting to work removing my sweatpants without commenting on my temporary inability to do it myself. This is better. Undressing is the kind of hovering I can get behind.

I balance with one hand on his shoulder as he kneels to take the pants off over one lifted foot, then the other. He pulls off my socks and the support from my bad ankle, his fingers briefly trace sore spots on my feet.

“You didn’t wrap your toes.” An observation, maybe a hint of chiding.

“I’ll do better next time.” Knowing that there will _be_ a next time brings a curve to my lips.

His fingers spiral over the residual swelling and bruising on the outside of my ankle, moving up to work a deeper touch up the backs of my calves. Warmth tingles in his fingers’ wake. I don’t know how he does that, but I’ve never questioned it.

“This is highly irregular, Mr. Nikiforov,” Yuuri sniffs. “Quite outside proper nursely rules.”

I smile. “Nursely? That’s a word?”

“Ancient Japanese, obscure dialect.” he says piously. I laugh, and he grins up at me in response, his expression still edged with worry.

He rises, trailing his fingers up the sides of my thighs, which tremble with something more than soreness now. He works his hands under the waistband of my boxers, sliding them around to work the garment down. As his palms brush the bare skin of my lower back, he pauses and presses them there, his eyes closing and brow furrowing.

I moan as heat sinks into my skin, and my knees almost give way. He quickly catches my balance and eases me toward the bath.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you rubbed down. Then we’ll soak if you want.”

This over-the-top bathroom is the main reason I bought this condo before returning with Yuuri to Saint Petersburg. The new place sacrifices a bit of living space for a master bath nearly as big as the adjoining bedroom. It’s worth it for the huge jet tub, deep enough for two to soak up to the neck, and the separate steam shower. The heated floor and towel warmer will spare us a lot of teeth-chattering sprints from bath to bed this winter.

I don’t really need to support myself with one arm across Yuuri’s shoulders, but my body thanks me as he settles me on a seat inside the shower. In a moment, six massage jets are pummeling my back. This enormous monstrosity of a steam shower—which reminds me disturbingly of Willy Wonka’s glass elevator—is one of the features that sold me on this place. There are bells and whistles I haven’t yet figured out how to use and plenty of room for Yuuri, stripped to his boxer briefs, to kneel before me on a folded towel. Water from the jets splatters all over him, but his only reaction is to occasionally shake his head to fling droplets off his shaggy hair.

“Now that’s a sight I could get used to.” I grin, rotating my neck under a jet. His half smile is all _eros_ as he reaches for a bottle on a corner shelf.

“Why am I naked and you’re not?” I fret, though I have an idea why. The underwear covers stretch marks on his lower belly, scars from his constant battle against off-season weight gain. Whether he covers them depends on the emotional weather.

Instead of an embarrassed blush, though, there’s that smile again. My cock unashamedly responds to the sight of Yuuri on his knees. A position which, for him, is anything but submissive. It’s as if he’s in his element, all calm, controlled power. Power, I know from experience—when it’s not derailed by anxiety—that can have me begging for mercy in an embarrassingly short period of time.

His body responds to my nakedness, but it’s almost scary how he can ignore the erection pushing at his underwear, perfectly content to wait for the right time to release it.

He spreads aromatic massage gel between his palms and, propping one of my feet on his muscular thigh, begins a foot massage that transforms my spine into a noodle that threatens to send me sliding right off the bench. I brace my other foot on his knee to stay upright.

“I can see our next home improvement project is going to be a seat belt,” he says, a smile in his voice. I can’t see it. My eyes are closed, probably won’t open for a year or two.

“Mmm. Restraints.” I hiss the end of the word as he takes my foot and presses up, easing my calf into a satisfying stretch. Then his strong fingers sweep upward with long, deep strokes, releasing tension from my lower leg, coaxing the muscles to release excess lactic acid.

By the time he’s done with my other foot and lower leg, my jaw is slack and I’m pretty sure I’m drooling. A pause for more gel, followed by more deep strokes up my thighs, thumbs digging into my quadriceps, my hip flexors, coming tantalizingly close to my groin but never quite taking that detour. Steam wreaths us in an herbal-smelling cloud.

As I lose myself in bliss, I feel lips touch my left knee, and I snap my mouth shut on an involuntary gasp. He gently kisses four tiny surgical scars. The sheer tenderness of the gesture squeezes my lungs.

Tears press behind my closed lids in a shocking rush, as if they only needed a secret signal, Yuuri’s achingly gentle touch, to burst free. Along with them, a torrent of thoughts I’ve been hiding from Yuuri…from myself…floods my brain.

_Fuck, is this my life, now?_

A caress to my hip stills mid-stroke.

_I’ve always pushed through soreness. But this is different. This stabbing pain…_

“Victor?”

_…freezes me like a statue, knocks me literally off my feet. How can I fulfill Yuuri’s needs, his dream, when—_

A hand strokes my face, and I open my eyes to find Yuuri leaning up, water-slick body between my thighs, one hand over my pounding heart, the other feathering fingertips over my cheek, my brow.

His eyes lock with mine, and suddenly my arms are around him, my face buried in the side of his neck. Anything to keep him from reading my expression. He takes my abrupt shift in weight without any apparent effort, reaching over to turn off the jets, holding me, raking fingers through my wet hair. Murmuring words that take a few moments to sink in.

“Shh. It’s all right. I’ve got you.” Whispering. Stroking. Kissing my ear. Letting loose a long string of delicate, soothing Japanese syllables. “Daijōbu, daijōbu. Koko ni iru yo.”

My time in Hasetsu allows my brain to pick out a few words, but I don’t trust my voice to ask him to translate. What few words I understand—and something about the tone of his voice—settles my soul.

_It’s all right. Here._

I allow no sound to escape my locked throat, no tears to escape my clamped-shut eyes, determined not to show him how desperately weak I am.

“Sore no tebanasu. Anata wa tsuyoidesu.”

_Strong._

His hypnotic tone seeps into my body, and presently it’s safe to draw a deep breath without it sounding like a sob.

“Watashitachiha issho ni tatakau.”

 _Together_.

His strength slowly becomes mine.

“Anata wa senshidesu. Shhh.”

_Warrior._

With a final exhale, I lift my head, avoiding his eyes, knowing if I let them meet mine, he’ll see everything. I go straight for his slightly parted lips and kiss him. Drink from him. For this moment, it’s just Yuuri’s lush mouth on mine. Giving me…giving… _giving_ …

Yuuri cradles the back of my head. Tilts his to deepen the kiss and give me _more._ Between my thighs, his body presses into mine. I push my fingers under his waistband, work his underwear down, grab two handfuls of his muscular ass. It flexes in my grip, his breath catches as he angles his hips back, craving harder contact. His supple back flexing in a sinuous movement, he presses his belly against mine, slow, sensual thrusts. My breath whooshes from my lungs as he works one hand between us and gathers both our cocks together in one slick palm.

The herbal gel’s pleasant tingle heats my already sensitized skin.

He pulls back. My lips chase his, but he sweeps a thumb across my swollen lower lip until I focus on his eyes, pupil-blown dark and maybe a little troubled.

“Is this okay?” He gives an experimental stroke and my eyes cross. He smiles softly. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

It’s a wonder how in a split second he can go from eros-sure to new-lover hesitant. The emotional and sexual ground between us hard won, still learning the terrain. The hidden pitfalls.

I plant small kisses on his mouth. Both corners. The plush lower lip. “ _Da_ ,” I whisper, desire throwing static between languages in my brain. “Is okay. Very okay.”

He smiles out a breath between kisses. “Let me know if anything…”

_Don’t say hurts, Yuuri. Don’t say—_

I moan his name, kiss deeply, and he forgets the end of his sentence. I hollow my abdomen to give him room to work. And work he does, taking control of my— _our—_ pleasure until we cry out in tandem and our stomachs and chests are striped with come. Lungs heaving for air, Yuuri slumps down and licks a bit of white stickiness from my nipple, making me laugh and hunch my shoulders to pull the oversensitive bit of flesh out of his reach.

He looks up at me and grins, licking his lips, but there are circles under his eyes. I brush a thumb under one of them and he leans into my touch. “Let’s get showered off and soak in the tub,” I murmur. “I’ll take care of your legs.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen, angle away as he starts to rise like a startled deer. “I’ll be fine…”

I grasp his chin, holding him in place. “No arguments. You’ve been supporting me all day—for several days, Yuuri. It’s your turn to rest.”

His nod of “okay” is heavy with “not okay.”

By the time we get out of the bath, my body is relaxed, and my pain is down to a dull, bearable throb. Yuuri, however, is weaving from exhaustion. Yet he throws on clothes, hustles down to the first-floor dog sitter to bring Makka home, cooks a quick dinner. Then while I do my required rest-ice-elevation, he pulls out his tablet and spends precious time organizing the notes he took during my meeting with Dr. Sorokina, going over schedules for tomorrow. He should be working on music for his short program. I’m too short on energy to argue with him about it.

When I finally get him to put it all aside to come to bed, his body twitches, even after he manages to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Chert poberi (черт побери) – Damn it  
> Daijōbu – it’s all right  
> Koko ni iru yo – I’m here  
> Sore no tebanasu – let it go  
> Anata wa tsuyoidesu – you are strong  
> Watashitachiha issho ni tatakau – we fight together  
> Anata wa senshidesu – you are a warrior  
> Google translate was used for translations. Any mistakes, as always, are my own.  
> \-----  
> Thank you again for all the love by way of kudos and comments. Your response has been more of a gift than you’ll ever know.  
> Also, thanks for your patience as I navigate the learning curve of uploading to AO3! 😊 I may or may not have hair left by the time this thing is done.  
> \-----  
> On to Chapter Four, where Victor struggles to adjust to a new normal, and Yuuri sticks to his vow to help as much as humanly possible—a vow that pushes him to the limit.  
> \-----  
> Questions? Worries? Don’t hesitate to message me. Here are some online resources:  
> Mayo Clinic. https://www.mayoclinic.org  
> Spondylitis Foundation of America. https://spondylitis.org  
> The Arthritis Foundation. https://www.arthritis.org  
> The American College of Rheumatology. https://www.rheumatology.org


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the positive feedback! <3 <3 <3  
> Netsirhc and Mel Combs – I owe you both. Big time.

_It’s not denial._  
I’m just selective about the reality I accept.  
~ Bill Watterson

** CHAPTER FOUR  **

_Two weeks later._

**_Victor_ **

It’s been a while since I greeted 7 a.m. at all, much less standing reasonably upright, still stiff, but an improvement. Yuuri is asleep, which feels delightfully…normal. Every morning since that first terrifying tumble to the floor, it’s been Yuuri waking up first, Yuuri coaxing me to open my leaden eyelids, to emerge reluctantly from my warm bed where, in the fuzzy border between sleep and awake, I can pretend pain doesn’t exist.

Some mornings, he’s had to pull my feet over the side of the bed and slide strong arms around my shoulders to sit me up and coax/force my body through a new regimen of deceptively simple stretches and exercises that will allow me to get up and walk on my own. They hurt. They _fucking_ hurt. But Yuuri is relentlessly pushy when it comes to making me do what I need to do, with a “You’ll thank me later.” And I always do.

I shudder to think how I would have gotten through this ordeal alone. Someone probably would have found me eventually, calcified in my bed. Ugh, the headlines…

Today, with Dr. Sorokina’s shots in my back really starting to do their work, I got up with the dawn without Yuuri’s help, feeling inordinately proud of myself as I let Makka out on her little patch of balcony grass and switched on the tea kettle.

Normal.

Except for the kitchen counter, where stands a regimented row of pharmaceutical soldiers which had begun arriving by courier and setting up camp only a day after the meeting with Dr. Sorokina. Behind it, a rank of nutritional supplements. Auxiliary troops. Strategic and vital.

I chuckle softly at a sudden urge to salute.

Leading the charge of bottles is a neatly printed schedule for my day—with built-in breaks for rest, hydration, fueling, and more medicine. I’m 100 percent certain this array wasn’t here last night before Yuuri and I went to bed. Sometime during the night, my stubborn, sometimes OCD lover must have slipped away to tie up the loose ends keeping him awake.

There’s a note on the bottom of the schedule, the uneven scrawl a testament to Yuuri’s exhaustion: _Wake me and I’ll give you your shot._

Warmth blooms in my chest, but so does irritation. Not with Yuuri, but myself. I’m a big boy. I should have no trouble giving myself a simple injection under my skin. Swipe with an alcohol swab, press the injector to my thigh, push the plunger, wait for the click, done.

Just imagining myself doing it makes the room tilt. _Damn it._

I am, apparently, _not_ a big boy. Yuuri would never complain if I woke him up to spend thirty seconds poking me with a hated needle. In fact, he’ll probably gentle me though it with distracting touches, teases, and smiles. I glance again at the jumpy, anxiety-ridden scrawl and huff out a determined breath. 

Dutifully I fill a glass of water and work my way down the ranks of bottles, inspecting each label before opening only the ones I need for the morning. With what I imagine was admirable restraint, Yuuri refrained from laying out every pill for me. I do notice, though, that he’s coded each label with different color dots to indicate what time or times of day to take them. Pink for morning, yellow for midday, blue for night. Some bottles have one dot. Others two or three.

At least I have no trouble swallowing. At the mental image that thought pops up, I smirk as I wipe water from my mouth with the back of my hand, then grab a protein bar to buffer the meds in my stomach. Nope. Swallowing is definitely not an issue for me.

Dosing and eating accomplished, my gaze falls on the last soldier in the rank. A small square of paper with an arrow pointing toward the location of a sniper – in the refrigerator. A blue cartridge with a hair-trigger button, containing a deceptively innocuous amount of a mighty chemical weapon that could give me my life back.

Last week, Yuuri quickly and efficiently gave me the first of these once-weekly injections, having paid scrupulous attention to the technician going over the steps. I’d paid attention. Until the technician demonstrated how the _needle_ worked, at which point I’d nodded intelligently and let Yuuri have at it, his fascination with the mechanism distracting him from the sweat breaking out on my forehead. In the end, it wasn’t so much the needle. It was the acid burn of the medicine blooming under my skin like an upside-down atomic cloud. It took several days for my bitten tongue to stop hurting. The bruise is still there.

The dark circles that seem to have taken up permanent residence under Yuuri’s eyes swim to the surface of my mind. I can do this. Let him sleep a little longer, take care of it myself, and go about our morning routine with the hard, awkward stuff out of the way.

I huff out another breath, wipe my sweaty palms on my t-shirt. _Grow some balls, Nikiforov. It’s a half minute out of your life_. I march to the fridge and retrieve the cartridge, taking it and its accompanying alcohol swab out of its packaging.

Sit. I should sit.

I pull out a stool from the kitchen island and, with a quick glance at our closed bedroom door, I drop my sweatpants to my knees and hitch my rear onto the seat. I will my hands not to shake as I tear open the swab and wipe a spot on the top of my thigh, fanning it with my hand to dry it and shake out some jitters. 

I drop the cartridge twice on the countertop before I manage to scoop it up using both hands. They feel ten times too big, clumsy and stiff. I place the safety tip on my thigh and press down firmly.

My stomach lurches and I spend the next few minutes with my damp forehead pressed to the cool countertop, talking my stomach out of throwing up the meds I’ve just downed. If I can just get this over with, I can forget about it for a whole week.

With a frustrated growl, I sit up, mash the tip of the cartridge to my thigh with both hands, hover one thumb over the trigger button. 

Press it. PRESS IT.

I hold my breath. My thumb brushes the button.

“Victor, wait.”

I look up to find Yuuri hurrying toward me, one hand outstretched. _Blyat_. I quickly paste a smile on my lips. “Yuuri! What are you—"

“Did you ice it?”

Ice. I look down at my trembling hands. “Uh…I…might have…forgotten that part?” 

Yuuri unceremoniously plucks the cartridge out of my fingers as he heads for the freezer to get an ice cube. In short order he’s standing before me, briskly rubbing small circles on the target area on my thigh.

“Let me know when you can’t feel this anymore. Actually,” a quick quirk of his lips, “you didn’t forget. I’ve been doing some research—this is one of a couple tricks we can try to lessen the sting. It hurt you last week. I could tell.”

I swallow against the strong emotion that seems to have chosen my throat as my weak spot. “I’m fine, Yuuri. It’s fine,” I assure him, but my heart warms at his use of _we._ I let out a shaky breath. He visibly restrains himself from asking if I’m okay. A minute goes by in silence as his calm focus pulls my heart rate back to normal and my hands stop trembling. If he notices, he tactfully ignores it.

“Why didn’t you wait for me? Or wake me up?” He doesn’t look up from his task, but there’s a tiny note of hurt in his voice. 

“I wanted to let you sleep,” I whisper, face heating. “You’ve been sacrificing your own rest to get me up and moving to make it to training on time. I saw what you did last night when you should have been resting, and thanks for that, but…maybe I wanted to prove I can handle at least one thing myself.”

“You don’t have to ‘handle’ everything yourself, Vitya. It’s no sin to let your loved ones share the burden.” He looks into my eyes with a small smile.

Even at his leanest competition weight, his cheeks never quite lost the soft curves inherited from his mother. Though she’d probably tsk over the deepening hollowness around his eyes. Thinking of Hiroko makes my heart ache. My own mother, a dancer barely able to support herself, surrendered me to the Russian athlete-building machine as soon as I started to show promise. Or maybe, as Americans like to say, she kicked me to the curb and never looked back. I’ve never been sure, and Yakov, if he knows the truth, has never said. What few retirement plans I have include looking for her.

Yuuri places the melting ice cube in my hand. “Here, keep this up while I grab something. How long has the injector been out of the fridge?”

“Um, about ten, fifteen minutes? Is that bad?”

“No, that’s fine. Better if it’s room temperature. Be right back.”

He hurries to a kitchen cabinet, retrieving a crinkly bag of…candy?...and returns to my side, waving it at my raised eyebrow.

“Trust me on this. Is it numb?”

“If frostbite feels numb, then yes,” I grin feebly, then give a muffled yelp when he opens my mouth with a thumb and forefinger on my chin and pops in a piece of candy. In half a second, my mouth feels like it’s about to turn inside out. “What the hell!” I mumble around the morsel of toxic waste.

Yuuri grimaces. “I know Warheads aren’t your favorite, but sour candy’s the best for distracting your brain. Interrupts the nerve pathways. I read about it in an online forum, um, last night.” He winces at my best imitation of Yakov’s coach-frown.

“Hurry up and do this thing before my tongue falls out.” The tears forming in my eyes are definitely not from emotion.

Yuuri holds up the cartridge. “It’s already done.”

I eject the offending candy into Yuuri’s waiting palm as I blink stupidly at the empty injector. “Wow, that…worked.”

Yuuri tosses the candy in the trash, his pleased expression temporarily lifting the fatigue from his eyes. But his smile fades a little as he moves in close to stroke my cheek with his fingertips, head tilting as if he’s noticed something.

“What is it?” I bring one hand up to cover his. He shakes his head and his smile brightens as he brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.

“Nothing,” he assures me. But then, because Yuuri is Yuuri, “Those shots you had in your back…the doctor said they might make your face a little, um, fuller? But it’s fine,” he adds hastily as my stomach drops. “I wouldn’t even have noticed except I’m—” he leans in and touches my lips with his, “—this close. No, don’t you dare cover up your face.” He pulls at the hands I’ve pressed to my burning cheeks. 

“Is it bad?” I poke cautious fingertips at my much-photographed face, famous for its could-cut-glass angles. Is it softer, squishier? Softness is a beautiful look on Yuuri. On me… It’s no use pretending. _Vanity, thy name is Victor Nikiforov_.

For a moment, despair gains a handhold on my throat. Rather than let Yuuri see it, I start to turn away and get up to go…somewhere. I’m not sure where. Anywhere Yuuri’s too-sharp gaze can’t see my face. My bloated face. What if the rest of my body ballooning, too? Holy hell, I’ve got a photo shoot coming up in a few weeks…

Yuuri grasps both my wrists with one strong hand, firmly cupping my chin with the other, holding me in place, stopping my runaway thought train. As if he already knew what I was about. “Look at me.” His voice takes on that new, still-unfamiliar tone of command. “You’re not going to stare into a mirror for the next three hours, obsessing. What you’re going to do is eat a good breakfast, get your stuff together, and get to the rink.” His thumb strokes under my eye. “You’re going to skate, Vitya. You’re going to li—” a tiny, telling pause, “We’re going to get through this.”

Something underlying his voice brings me back into focus. His gaze is so intent on mine, it feels tangible. Solid. Something I can draw upon when I need it, like I’m doing now. Slowing my pounding heart and easing the phantom grip on my throat. I haul in a deep breath and mutely nod.

“This is nothing your genius with makeup can’t handle,” he assures me. “Remember? You gave me cheekbones before I lost enough weight to have them. A little contouring magic, and no one’ll notice a thing.”

“Really?” I hate the plaintive note in my voice.

“Promise. And we’ll watch your diet. No salt, lots and lots of water. That’ll help.” His eyes take on a sparkle. “Besides, fashion photographers are experts at Photoshop.”

I give an overdramatic gasp and clutch at my chest over my heart. “These cheekbones are not _photoshopped_!”

Yuuri giggles, with a broad smile he doesn’t bother to cover when it’s just us. “Trust me, Nikiforov, _all_ commercial photos are retouched out the wazoo.” He leans forward and touches his smaller nose to mine. “Though in your case, I’m sure it’s not a full wazoo. A waz.”

Laughter brightens my outlook for the day ahead. But later, at the rink, it takes a supreme act of will to take off my snazzy white antiviral mask, borrowed from Yuuri’s massive stash. Maybe Yuuri is right, because no one says anything or looks at me sideways. Well, of course. Everyone is too focused on their own goals to notice me.

So…maybe I’m not the center of the universe after all, I laugh at myself. But I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s eyes are on me. 

* * *

I’ve done every edge drill and rinkside exercise I can think of – twice – and gone over my choreography and step sequences so many times, they’re ingrained in my muscles like a full-body earworm. My spins, which wasn’t my strongest skill before, now drill the ice almost as well as Yuuri’s. And I’ve practiced those so often, switching feet to give my still-tender ankle a break, Mila is bitching about the holes I’m leaving all over the place. 

The ice feels _good_. The chill air of the rink biting into my cheeks feels like home, though cold seems to sink deeper into my bones, an unfamiliar ache I can’t quite ignore. And takes an hour soaking in hot water to get rid of. Still, the old energy hums under my skin, making me itch to launch a jump. Any jump. Just something to celebrate the fact that for the first time in weeks, I don’t generally feel like crap. Whatever was in those shots—I can’t remember…Yuuri would know, I’ll ask him—they’re making me feel like some semblance of my old self. Though the face staring back at me in the mirror looks, to my eyes at least, like a full moon.

Trouble is, I’ve got a rink full of babysitters who keep me on the straight and narrow, who know without looking the sound of skate blades about to leave the ice. If I even think of winding up for one tiny little double toe, barely a bunny hop for me, Yakov pointedly clears his throat, or someone – Yura, Mila, or Yuuri – oh-so-casually crosses my path or loiters in my landing zone.

Enough. I’m thoroughly warmed up, my muscles loose and, for once, a tolerable level of pain in my back and damaged ankle. I subtly pick up some speed.

“No.” Yakov barks, not even looking up from his clipboard.

“But I just want—”

“ _No_.”

“Just a hop. I want to try a flying entry into the—”

Yakov has a gift for shouting without raising his voice. “One more word and I’m throwing you off this ice, Vitya.”

Reluctantly I abort the takeoff, and with a sigh, run the serpentine step sequence again for my long program, tweaking it to make it even more complicated and dramatic, _Stammi Vicino_ streaming in my head. After a long and somewhat strained talk with Yakov, I’d reluctantly agreed to resurrect, tweak, and perfect my most recent long program rather than reinvent the wheel, saving my energy and creative juices for the short. I knew I’d made the right choice at the look of relief on Yuuri’s face.

Eh. For once I really don’t feel compelled to surprise my audience. I’ll let the surprise be that I’m not surprising them. And maybe in a week or two my back will let me throw in some extra twists.

Another couple minutes and my ice time will be up. Next comes…what? I’ll have to check my phone—again—with the new app Yuuri installed on it. Something therapy-ish. I sigh. I’d rather be using the time to get in some jump practice or barre work. Much more restricted ice time like this and my muscle memory is going to fade. 

I glance at Yakov, who’s checking the time then counting incoming and outgoing heads in the rink. An assistant coach claims his attention.

I’ve got an idea.

It’s not technically outside my restrictions. 

I’ll be so quick Yakov won’t even notice, let alone have time to object.

I’ve done it before, just to show off, win a bet, or out of boredom.

Without giving any tell-tale signs I’m setting anything up, I sweep into an easy double loop – taking off and landing on the opposite foot, spinning clockwise in the air instead of counterclockwise. I land easily on my left blade with a solid clack on the ice. _Yes_. I punch both fists into the air in silent triumph, gleefully ignoring the warning twinge in my lower back. I reach around and rub the area in apology, promising the annoyed spot that’ll be it for the day.

Yakov’s angry gaze zeroes in on me. I grin, wave, and head for the barrier gate before he has a chance to start ripping me a new one.

“See you tomorrow,” I chirp, insanely happy to have gotten that half second of air time.

“Not if you do that again,” he thunders, voice of doom, striding to intercept me.

Yura shoots me a grin and an evil laugh as he exits the rink, bounding out the door to the tune of Yakov’s “Get out of my sight, Plisetsky. And don’t come back until you’ve taken an extra hour at the barre.”

Yura makes a rude noise.

“I mean it, Yura. Get your skinny ass back to the barre until you’ve found your center again. You landed less than twenty percent of your jumps cleanly today.”

Yura’s growth spurt has been wreaking havoc with his quads, even his triples. That has to be the only reason he doesn’t spout off profanities as the doors swing shut behind him. 

Then Yakov’s voice drops as I pass him so only I can hear. To anyone else it looks like I’m being read the riot act, but he says gently, “The vampire and your dungeon mistress are waiting for you.” 

He tips his head toward the double doors. Ah, so that’s what was next on my schedule. Waiting on the other side are a man with a plastic tackle box under his arm, and Talia, one of the team physiotherapists. She chats casually with him as she flips through a folder. They’re both wearing the sports complex’s staff shirts, but one of them isn’t staff. Tackle-box-guy is a blood draw tech from Leningrad General. The shirt is supposed to keep him from drawing media suspicion as he comes and goes.

The grin slides from my face. Yakov nudges me in their direction, back in coach mode. “Go, Vitya. If you want to fly again, go.”

At least the “vampire” is quick. Once we find an empty room, in less than a minute I’m rolling my sleeve down, gritting my teeth pleasantly at the tech as I fight to control my stuttering breathing and galloping heart. Wishing this needle aversion would get easier, wishing Yuuri was at my side.

Yuuri has other commitments today. Thanks to a new agent who’s rounded up enough sponsors, he’s no longer forced to scrape by on his family’s savings, donations, fundraisers, and the JSU’s pittance of a stipend. Just the fact he’s worked up the courage to go alone, without my support, makes me swell with pride.

But it also means he’s not always within eyesight or arm’s reach.

Jesus, when did I become so dependent? I’m a veteran competitive skater. I’ve faced challenges without a hand to hold since I was little more than a child. I can manage for a few hours without Yuuri. Without the touch that makes it all better.

“ _Horoshego dnya_ , Mr. Nikiforov,” says the tech as he packs up.

“You too,” I reply automatically, then pause, remembering that it could be worse. I could be running a media gauntlet every time I need a blood draw or a physical therapy session. “Thank you for coming all the way out here just for this.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he says cheerfully, snapping the box closed and tucking it under his arm. “It’s a privilege to be part of the team that helps Russia win its next gold.”

I laugh to cover a slow roll of my stomach. “Thanks to you, I’ll be able to do my best.”

The tech is out the door, and my phone pings as Talia pokes her head in.

“Water jog time, Mr. Nikiforov!” she sings, grinning fiendishly.

I groan as I glance at my phone. It’s a reminder to take my pills – with lunch. It’ll have to wait. I lengthen my stride to catch up with the diminutive but surprisingly fast therapist. “Talia, are you trying to kill me?”

I hate the deep-water jog sessions. Splashing around in a Barcelona hotel pool is one thing. Simulated running in the training area’s water therapy tank is quite another. Despite a flotation belt and an additional swim noodle poked through the back of it, ends waving in the air like a double tail – much to the amusement of anyone in range – every ounce of grace deserts me as I flail to keep my head above water. It’s the one time my minimal body fat isn’t an asset. I’m a little surprised a video of my wallowing hasn’t shown up on social media.

“Can’t we do something fun, like Pilates? Or resistance bands. How about—”

“You just had a blood draw, so no weight room or resistance bands for you, sir,” she scolds, leading the way toward the swim complex. “The last thing we need is your arm popping a bleeder. Besides, the last time, without Mr. Katsuki’s partnering up with you, I might have had to have ‘put Victor Nikiforov’s eye out with a giant rubber band’ on my C.V.”

Okay. She’s right. Resistance band work during my physical therapy sessions is great for my muscles, my injured ankle, but it’s an acquired skill I’m still acquiring. 

As I follow her to the swim complex, my phone pings with a text from Yuuri. I eagerly tap to read it.

_> Don’t forget your midday meds. The caddy is in your duffel. _

I frown. That’s it? Take your meds? Another message hastily follows the first, this one bracketed with hearts and smile emojis, nudging a smile to my lips.

_> I miss you. Photo sessions are awkward AF without an interpreter. See you at home. Stir fry night!! <3 _

“Tell you what,” Talia concedes. “If you promise not to complain about the water jog, I’ll help you stretch. I have a note from Yakov to work on your left hip flexor. You’re favoring your right ankle, and that’s putting more pressure on the left side. We need to balance you out.”

Greeeaaat. “Talia, we really need to work on your flirting skills.”

She laughs like Baba Yaga about to cheerfully crush me between her mortar and pestle as I scoop up my bag and, tucking my phone under my chin, fish around in it for my pill caddy and water bottle. My fingers brush the zippered security bag, remembering lamely that it’s secured with a combination lock. Another idea of Yuuri’s to keep prying eyes and tampering paws off my meds.

Now if I can just remember the combination…

Another text from Yuuri dings my phone, and I nearly drop it in my haste to retrieve it.

_> The code is my birthday._

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

“ _Ā, kuso_.” I snatch my hand back before I succeed in cutting off my own fingertip. How in the hell did I almost fall asleep standing up, chopping vegetables at the kitchen counter?

I lay the knife down a safe distance away from any and all appendages, pinch the bridge of my nose. I’d hoped to get back to the training center in time to get some practice in, but it hadn’t worked out. Combined with the necessity of being “on” all day, I feel like I could come out of my skin at any moment. An odd feeling, combined with exhaustion that hangs on me like a too-thick blanket.

Back home, I’d head for Ice Castle any time day or night to work out the jitters. Here, solo ice time isn’t easy to get. Definitely no dropping in unannounced. I miss it almost like I’d miss a limb. Not even Victor knows I sometimes wear the Ice Castle key under my shirt on a chain. A touchstone, a talisman. My hand twitches with the urge to dig it out of my skate bag.

I scrub my hands over my face. My body cries for rest. Even just a short nap, but a glance at the clock on my phone tells me there’s no time. Victor will need fueling when he gets home, and I’d planned to have the prep done before he walks in the door. Otherwise he’ll want to help. Stubbornly standing around in the kitchen with that sore back, those aching joints, that healing ankle.

At the ring of my phone, I jump at it like Pavlov’s dog, my mind quick-firing _something’s wrong something’s wrong who’s calling does Victor need me._ I blank out for a second when Aunt Hoshi’s name flashes on screen. Oh. I never did call her as I’d promised my mother.

“Oba-san! Hello!”

“Hello, Yuuri, I was talking to your mother today—”

“Yes, I’m so sorry. I promised Mom I’d call weeks ago but things have been a little,” a quick glance at the door to watch for Victor, “busy.”

She laughs gently. “So I hear.”

I remember my manners and clear my throat. “How are you? Have you been well?”

She exhales a tired but satisfied sigh. “I’ve just returned from teaching a seminar in the States. So it may be have been difficult to reach me in any case. I’m jetlagged, but I’ll recover.” She gets right to the point. “How is everything with you?”

Unsure if she means me or both of us, I turn my back to the counter and lean against it, knuckling the ache forming in my forehead. Before I know it, words are spilling out. “To be honest, I’m not sure. It’s been two weeks since his diagnosis – ankylosing spondylitis, did Mom say? Not quite the same as…but. Um. The treatments seem similar. And. Uh.” I hate the wobble in the breath I have to draw. “So much has changed. Keeps changing. His pain, his ankle injury, the fatigue, the change in training regimen. He’s had to pull way back until the ankle heals and the AS meds kick in. The…the medications. I think that’s what scares me—him—the most. It’s just so much. All at once.”

My stomach quakes in my belly as I try to stem the word vomit. At one time Hoshi was as close to me as my own mother, but the years between us at once seem yawning, and nothing.

Opening up like this. To anyone. It’s like stepping off a cliff.

She makes a humming sound, taking in and processing everything I’ve told her.

“And,” I take a deep breath. “I think he has a serious needle phobia. He’s trying to be strong, but I watch him. The injections, the blood draws…he hates them. Beyond hates.”

“That sounds familiar,” Hoshi murmurs. “With time he’ll most likely adjust. But that’s not what I asked, Yuuri. How are _you_ holding up?”

My throat closes on thoughts and emotions I don’t have the time nor the energy for. Anxiety. Sorrow. Abject fear. Anguish that Victor is suffering before my eyes and there’s very little I can do about it except take as much off his plate as possible.

“I-I’m…all right. Busy, between training, fulfilling obligations to sponsors, and helping Victor as much as I can.” I huff out a laugh. “And this is just the off season. I mainly wanted to talk to you and pick your brain about better ways to make his life easier. What I can improve.” _What I’m doing wrong,_ I bite back. Because, as much as I’m trying to take on for Victor’s welfare, it doesn’t feel like enough.

“Do something for me, Yuuri. Switch to FaceTime.”

Um. “What?”

“Please, Yuuri. Just for a moment.”

Oookay. I obediently tap to accept when the request pops up on my screen.

Her smile, so much like my mother’s, appears. I smile back, but hers fades as she searches my face. Inwardly I squirm as she sighs. Mom once said Hoshi can see right through any façade. “You aren’t resting.”

I laugh nervously, unable to force myself to quite meet her gaze. “It’s disgusting how early we’re in bed. Uh. Sleeping.” I can’t control the hot blush that flashes across my cheeks, but she remains patient, neither smiling nor teasing. “The media would have you believe we’re partying every night. The truth is—”

“The truth is, Yuuri,” she interrupts—which she would never do unless she thought it important—“I can see by looking at you that you’re drained. Your aura is full of…I can only describe it as sludge.”

There are a whole lot of things I don’t or no longer believe in, but Hoshi’s gift isn’t one of them. I know I should listen, but something inside me rebels against her wisdom.

“You must protect yourself,” she goes on. “Take care of yourself before you take care of anyone else.” She leans closer to the screen. “Even Victor. _Especially_ Victor.”

Protect myself? From _Victor?_ I open my mouth, but she pushes on.

“I have not met Victor, but I’ve spoken with my sister, seen the changes in your performance, your body language, even the way you handle media interviews. He’s been good for you, and I’m well aware what he’s come to mean to you, Yuuri. To your whole family. And that makes it vitally important to—”

Without warning, the front door flies open.

“Yuuri! Makkacheeeeeeen!!” That beloved voice, Makka’s exultant barks. “I’m home!” He drops his skate bag and duffel by the front door, yanks off his mask, and squats with a wince to play with Makka, glancing up curiously at the phone in my hand.

“Is that Victor?” Hoshi asks, a smile in her voice.

“How did you guess?” I laugh.

“Oh, I don’t know. The fact that it sounds like a minor tornado just swept into the room?”

“Nailed it.”

She hesitates. “Yuuri, does he speak Japanese?”

It occurs to me how long it’s been since I’ve spoken this much of my own language in an unbroken string. It feels good. “He’s learning, but he probably can’t follow our conversation, no.”

She continues, sticking to Japanese for the moment. “Then I’ll just repeat this, nephew. Put on your own life jacket before helping Victor with his.”

Before I can answer, Victor sails to my side and smashes his cheek against mine to get in on the video call. The chill in his skin gives me pause.

“Who are we talking to, Yuuri?” He glimpses the face on my phone screen and gasps, “Okasaan?? Oh wait, that’s not…”

I jam my brain into gear. “No, this is my Aunt Hoshi, Mom’s sister? I don’t remember if I—”

“Oba-san Hoshi!” Victor crows in delight, and my chest swells with pride at his correct use of the honorific and the thoroughly charming little bow he manages to execute with just his head and hands. “I’m delighted to meet you!” He continues in heavily accented Japanese, wide smile splitting his face.

The energy rolling off him is something I’ve missed in recent weeks. It tells me—warns me—something momentous must have happened while we were apart today. But that grin is infectious. “Aunt Hoshi, this is Victor, my coach. And, uh, m-my fiancé.” Victor’s arm sneaks around my shoulders, his body relaxing into me as he squeezes. I rub a hand up and down his back, out of sight of the phone camera. It’s almost a relief to feel his skin warm up under mine, to feel his body absorb my comfort.

Hoshi switches smoothly to English. “Nice meeting you, too, Victor. I’ve heard so much about you, and your skating is a joy to watch. My daughter and I never missed a competition when we could get it on television or the Internet.”

Every muscle in my body tenses, and Victor looks at me curiously.

I tilt my head and look back. “Are you _blushing_?”

He jostles me with a hip bump and a muttered, “Shut _up_.”

I laugh, but I turn to look at Hoshi, trying to beg her with my eyes not to say any more. Her gaze hops back and forth between me and Victor, settles on me, blinks, brow furrowing in concern.

Hoshi takes a breath, holds it a second as if deciding what to say, then speaks. “I’ll let you go now. It was lovely talking to you. But, boys, do something for me?”

Victor’s and my “Of course” and “ _Da_ , Oba-san” collide.

“Take care of each other. And Yuuri…my phone line is always open.”

* * *

“What did she mean by that?”

Victor, in concession to my gentle but implacable suggestion (I refuse to call it bullying, but okay. Bullying.), is seated at the kitchen island, finishing up vegetable chopping while I prepare the pan. I’d rather see him resting on the couch with his feet up, but hey, I can pick my battles. Sometimes.

“Mean by what?” I flick a drop of water into the pan to test the oil’s readiness, trying to sound casual but not facing him, because my face will give my anxiety away.

“To take care of each other.”

I toss a quick smile over a shrugged shoulder. “She probably thought we look tired. With our schedules, tired is a given.”

The steady rhythm of his knife slows. “I do nothing but train, eat, and sleep. I should be helping you more.”

I shake the pan with a little too much vigor. “You’re helping me right now.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Training went well today? You seemed especially cheerful when you got home.” Inheld breath while I wait to see if he’ll go with the change of subject. The knife rhythm perks up again. Success.

“I, ah, might have managed a jump today?”

I spin around with an intake of breath, but at the sheepish, almost pleading grin on his face, I snap a lid on my kneejerk urge to scold. “Which jump?”

He looks up, the eagerness in his eyes making me want to cry. Did he think I’d be angry?

“Just a double loop,” he hastens to assure me. “At the very end of practice. I was feeling so good on the ice today, I…” He bends his head back to his work. “It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, because I think I tweaked my back. I put at risk all my progress, all the work you’ve put in, too.”

Abandoning the stove, I advance on him and take his face in my hands. His cheeks are flushed, still puffy under my fingers. “I’ll never tell you not to push your limits. Or…I’ll try. I won’t always get it right. I only want you to be more mindful of when the right time is to push, and when to rest. I’ll try to trust you on that, because it’s a moving target only you can gauge.”

I stroke my thumbs under his bright blue eyes. “You’ve never had to do it before, and God knows I’m not the best role model. You already demand a lot from yourself, Vitya. I don’t and won’t demand perfection. Just that you never give up. Okay?”

What is it with me and word vomit today? I need a good gab session with Phichit to get it out of my system.

“Okay,” Victor says softly. I’m not sure, but his eyes seem to take on a sudden sheen before he pulls away and turns back to his task. “Is the pan about ready?”

I spring back to the stove to adjust the heat under the nearly smoking oil. “It’s ready.”

He brings the prepared food over with a limp I don’t comment on, and I get to work as he washes his hands then props a hip on the counter next to me. I try hard to ignore his wince and adjustment to a more comfortable position.

“Your day went well, I presume?” He reaches out to play with a bit of my wayward hair. I smile at the gesture. Intimate. Normal.

“Two photo shoots, a radio spot, a live video chat, and a TV commercial for dog food.”

Victor blinks. “You did that all in one day? That’s—”

“Insane, I know, but it’s more efficient to bring the sponsors to me than for me to fly out to meet with them individually. They know they can count on me not to be a prima donna and to stay on schedule.”

Victor gasps dramatically. “Was that a dig?”

“No,” I laugh. “Plus, I got to play with shelter dogs on camera. Thank my agent.”

“So, no ice time, then.” A thoughtful expression crosses his face.

“Not unless you count skating around in awesome athletic wear and posing for some new posters.” The pan hisses and bubbles as I add ingredients. “Oh! That reminds me. I have presents for you.”

He immediately perks up, and my heart warms. He’s so easy to please. “The athletic wear company sent along some new pieces in your size. I’ll dig them out after dinner.”

“Heh. Hoping to lure me into a contract? They do know I’m already representing Nike, right?”

I shrug. “I guess they figure it never hurts to try. And free stuff is never a bad thing, _hai?”_

He laughs, snatching a piece of marinated chicken from the platter of cooked rice where I’ve just dumped our dinner. “ _Da!_ ”

* * *

**_Victor_ **

Yuuri thinks I don’t notice when he slips quietly out of bed in the wee hours of the morning. The truth is, I’m acutely aware when he’s near, and when he moves away. Especially in the silence of the night, when medication-side-effect twitchiness is at its worst. Like full-body restless leg syndrome. The only cure seems to be Yuuri’s body wrapped around mine, his hand on my lower back, hot, soothing.

Makka rolls into his warm space on the bed and snores. I lie perfectly still until I hear the front door open and click shut.

What the hell…

By mutual agreement, we have a locator app on our phones. A little guiltily I check it now, but several minutes later, his dot has barely moved on the screen. Where is he? What could he possibly be doing at this hour? It’s not as if there’s an Ice Castle nearby—

_Oh, no. Oh, Yuuri._

Batting pillows out of my way, I roll out of bed, push through stiffness to pull on some clothes, then let myself out of the flat. In a few minutes I’m peeking through the small window on the door to the building’s common workout room.

There he is. Back to me, feet pounding the treadmill, sweat already spotting his t-shirt. He stumbles once. My hand lands on the doorknob but I stop myself from turning it because he quickly rights himself and toils on. Head down. Chest heaving unevenly as if…

As if he’s crying.

Tears filling my own eyes, I clamp a hand over my mouth and run for the elevator. I lunge through the doors the second they slide open, slam both hands against the back wall, fighting for breath as rage contorts my stomach and claws up my throat.

This thing inside me…this disease…it’s not just trying to destroy me. It’s destroying Yuuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (via Google translate):  
> Horoshego dnya (Russian) – Have a nice day  
> Ā, kuso - Oh, shit  
> All translation mistakes are my own.  
> \---  
> Coming up in Chapter 5: Yura has something to say (at full volume), Victor hits a frightening wall, and Yuuri’s private struggle intensifies. ~~Also, victuuri sex. 😊~~
> 
> EDIT: Because the next chapter got a bit out of control regarding word count, I had to split it, which means #victuuri sex was pushed back to Chapter 6. Sorry! It'll be worth the wait, I promise!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This chapter kind of got out of control in terms of word count, so I ended up splitting it into two. Which means (and I’m SORRY!!) the sexytimes got pushed back to the next chapter. I’m sorry (again)!! It’ll be worth the wait, I promise!
> 
> As always, much love to netsirhc and Melissa Combs, beta goddesses.

_Some of us think holding on makes us strong. But sometimes it is letting go.  
_~ Herman Hesse

**_Victor_ **

The moment I’m out of Talia’s line of sight, my thanks-for-everything smile drops from my face and my shoulders hunch in misery.

First up this morning had been an hour-and-a-half in Lilia Baranovskaya’s ballet class. If Yakov told her anything about my condition, she didn’t show it or go any softer on me. I have to admit, I’ve grown used to being the star of her classes, held up as an example to less experienced skaters.

It’s a new experience to have her find fault with my left leg turnout, my usually flawless posture at the barre. I can’t remember the last time I sweated so hard under her critical eye.

Next up came physiotherapy.

There was a time I looked forward to it. It left me loose and ready to hit the ice. Not anymore. Where hurts-so-good stretches conflict with pain-is-bad exercises prescribed by Dr. Sorokina’s team, Talia errs on the side of no-pain. Wisely, of course, but with the no-pain method, progress is achieved gently, by single degrees of rotation. It’s glacially slow. Frustrating. Maddening. With the added bonus of fear that I’m losing ground.

Two straight failures to measure up irritate some inner demon within me, awakened by medications my body’s never encountered before. At the slightest provocation, it wants to snap and bite at anyone within range, if I don’t suppress it. I don’t always succeed.

Laughter spills from an open rehearsal room door to my left as I make my way toward the locker room. A glance inside halts my steps for a moment. Yuuri is teaching a spin session. About a dozen junior skaters, arrayed around him, spin with one foot planted on a turning board, which allows a skater to simulate spinning on a bare floor.

The spin board, as finicky as an ice surface, exposes every flaw in each skater’s technique, and Yuuri passes among them, correcting postures, arm positions, and sloppy free legs.

He does it in exchange for ice time, but it’s clear to me, from his relaxed, if tired smile, that he’s enjoying himself. And so are his students. He stops everyone for a moment to demonstrate, stepping one foot onto the board and pushing off from a loop takeoff position to spin backward—a weird and awkward move for less experienced skaters.

I watch, marveling, as he spins, centered as if the ball of his foot is pinned in place, his position changes smooth, perfect. Beautiful. His students, male and female, audibly sigh in appreciation.

Aww. They’ve all got babyskater crushes on him. That’s my Yuuri, stealing hearts without even trying. Like he stole mine.

As Yuuri opens his arms, slows and hops off the board, he catches sight of me. His smile falters. The shadows under his eyes deepen as he turns away to address his class. My heart plummets at the reminder that from the first morning alarm, this day’s gone downhill.

Predictably after his late-night slog on the treadmill, Yuuri wasn’t in the sunniest of moods. Still, his reaction to my efforts to lighten his load left me puzzled. The more I tried to cheerfully shoo him away, prove I’m feeling perfectly fine and don’t need him for every little thing, the quieter he grew until, finally, he fell silent and left for his run to the rink without a word, a touch, or a kiss.

Naturally, without his organizational skills, I ran late, swallowing my morning meds with a gulp of tepid green tea as I hurried out the door. Earning Lilia’s wrath when I tried and failed to sneak into the back row of her class unnoticed.

As Yuuri turns away from me now, I remind myself he’s busy, clearly tired, and that surely we’ll have time later to clear the air. I head on down the hall, my stomach mumbling queasiness and threatening full-throated nausea.

“Hey! Old man!”

I suppress a groan. I’m not proud of how my frustration in ballet class manifested in a thought I’d never meant to fall out of my mouth. Or, at least, not in the way it did. Still, the last thing I need right now is a skinny scrap of hellfire named Plisetsky jumping down my throat.

Trying to deep-breathe the knots in my belly away, I pretend I didn’t hear Yura’s snarl and stride on toward the locker room. Until he grabs my arm and spins me around. Something flickers in Yura’s eyes at my hiss of surprise and discomfort, but it quickly disappears under his scowl.

“What the _fuck_ was that all about?”

I raise my shoulders in a diffident shrug. “What?” I _know_ what, but the cortisone devil inside me bristles in annoyance.

“No one,” Yura growls, jabbing a finger at my face, “talks to Mila like that.”

I cover a stab of shame with a laugh. “No one but you? Insults are like a second language between the two of you. Besides, I simply observed she could spend more time skating and less time chatting.”

“She made the podium at the last GPF!”

I turn away and walk on, hitching my skate bag higher on my shoulder, ignoring the persistent twinge in my back and left hip. “Well, maybe if she’d channeled her energy properly, she’d have landed that combination and won gold.” Even as I speak, I grit my teeth against whatever demon has taken control of my mouth. I’m Mr. Nice Guy, the skater whose public smile never falters. The one who never gives the media any dirt to dig up, any bad feelings to mine among my competitors. It isn’t like me to diss other skaters, especially to their faces.

Remembering the shock on Mila’s makes me wince. I’d meant to sandwich constructive observations between generous slices of compliments. But watching her waste time raised a flash of unexpected anger inside me. _Don’t you know, Mila? Don’t_ any _of you see? What you take for granted can all be ripped away in an instant…_

Whatever I’d been about to say to her spewed out like a splash of icy water to the face.

Yura abruptly grips the back of my warmup jacket and propels me through the locker room door. I’m too surprised and caught off balance to resist as I’m frog marched all the way to the back of the room and shoved into a deserted corner. I spin around, drop my skate bag, ready to match Yura shout for shout, but snap my mouth shut in shock.

There are tears sheening his green eyes. Tears he’s using every ounce of his temper to hold back.

I don’t do tears. Tears are awkward and messy and uncontrolled. Invariably I blurt out the wrong thing or simply run away before my sympathetic reflex kicks in and I find myself tearing up, too.

Nausea takes a tighter grip on my stomach _._ Over the years, I’ve made Yura laugh. I’ve made him think. I’ve pissed him off. I’ve never made him cry. My usual sense of self-preservations deserts me, and I reach out to lay a hand on his shoulder. Which, I observe with a pang, is nearly on a level with my own, thanks to his galloping growth spurt.

“Yura…”

He bats my hand away. “What is wrong with you?”

I can’t meet his eyes. “You know what’s wrong with me. You were there.”

“Yes, I know all about it. The only one with a front row seat closer than mine is Katsudon. I seriously doubt he’s enjoying the view, either.”

Wow. The kid isn’t pulling any punches. I heave a sigh as Yura visibly winds up to deliver the tongue lashing I deserve.

“No one knows the truth except the four of us who were in that room. But everyone else here’s been ordered to treat you with kid gloves. Because the great Victor _fucking_ Nikiforov mustn’t be distracted from his great _fucking_ comeback.”

I blink. So that’s why Mila had turned away from me instead volleying back with her usual sass. Yura’s lip lifts in a sneer.

“Didn’t know that, did you?” He plows on, voice dripping sarcasm. “Well, you know what? Fuck that. I have eyes. I know what someone feeling like shit looks like because I watch my grandfather go through it every damned day. Even on your best day you’re annoying as hell. But don’t let this thing turn you into something you’re not. An asshole.”

Yura pauses and glances over his shoulder as, on the other end of the room, the door opens, letting in voices and tromping feet that fall silent at the sound of Yura’s shouts echoing off the walls. A few seconds later, quieter feet shuffle out and the door clicks shut.

I cross my arms and prop myself against the wall at my back, pretty sure he’s not done. He’s not. But at least he lowers his voice.

“A long time ago, you did something not even Yakov could do—challenge me to win the junior title without risking injury attempting quads. I listened to you because like everyone else, I looked up to you. Because of you, I found a way to win with strategy, not thoughtlessly flinging my body past its limitations. I saw that jump yesterday. I wanted to cheer for you, but I also wanted to thump you over the head.”

I start to smile, but quickly wipe it off my face at Yura’s narrowed eyes.

“I know you, Victor. Once you step a toe over that line, you’ll dive headfirst across it, damn the consequences. You’re going to push too far this time, and you’re going to take yourself out of the game before it even starts. I can’t fucking _believe_ I’m saying this, but I’m challenging _you._ Find a way to beat me without hurting yourself. Even if it means competing without a quad. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

His tears are drying, but he reaches out and grabs my jaw, much like I once did to him when he was being an insolent punk.

“And if you ever, _ever,_ put that look on Mila’s face again, or Yuuri’s, I will kick your ass.”

I laugh raggedly and pull his hand away, squeezing it between both of mine. “I believe you, Yuratchka. I…I’m—”

“Don’t apologize to me. Fight me for the gold. Apologize to Mila and Yuuri.”

“Not ‘Katsudon’?” I drop his hand and clutch my stomach, which isn’t improving as the tension between us eases.

“Everything he puts up with? I’ve decided he deserves his name.” Yura picks up his discarded skate bag and, after an assessing glance at me, grabs mine, too.

“You’ve seen him?” Hope is fading that making conversation will give my stomach amnesia. I swallow hard.

“I saw him. He’s doing a damned good impression of a kicked puppy.” Yura squints at me cautiously. “Why are you…turning green?”

“I, ah, may have neglected to eat before I left home this morning.” Something vile is racing up my throat, and I start moving toward the toilets. Fast.

Yura drops our bags and falls in beside me, slipping a supporting hand under my arm. “Let me guess. You took your meds on an empty stomach. Yuuri suspected as much, and asked me to keep an eye on you today.”

I can’t answer with a hand clamped over my mouth.

Yura sighs. “Jesus, you really do need a keeper. Come on, let’s get this over with. Moron.”

* * *

I’m somewhat improved by the time I step onto the ice, if wan, clammy, wrung-out-dishrag qualifies as “improved”. I’m late, of course, thanks to my dramatic side trip to the toilet. With no time to eat—just thinking about the packed lunch in my duffel makes my stomach lurch—I gulp some water then commence warming up with lap exercises, eyeing the jump harness session already in progress with—I can’t believe I’m thinking this—a little envy. My ankle is healing, the heat and pain in my joints and back easing with rest and medication. The temptation to add jumps back into my training grows stronger by the day.

I resolutely look away and keep skating, nodding to Yakov along the sidelines as I pass him. He eyes me with an equal amount of speculation. After a few more laps of gentle edge exercises, he waves me over.

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Changing your mind about the jump harness, Vitya?”

I huff out a rueful laugh, sheepishly rubbing the back of my neck. “Maybe. Yes.”

I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. “You haven’t been cleared for high impact yet, but…”

“But…?” I prompt, my pulse picking up.

“I will check with Dr. Petrova first, but if you stick to edge jumps only _and—_ ” he holds up a warning finger at my intake of breath, “let the spotter support you on landing…”

I’m already nodding, a once-arrogant man turned humble beggar. Ready to promise anything to get into that harness, anything to get my training moving forward. Anything to fly again.

“I won’t even use the bad ankle,” I promise. “I’ll land everything in reverse.”

“Good,” he says with a satisfied nod, something slightly evil glinting in his eye. “I’ll text the doctor while you finish warming up.” His voice drops so only I can hear. “When do you see Dr. Sorokina again?”

“Um…” Yuuri would know. He probably entered it into my phone. I swallow against the pang in my chest. “Next week?”

Yakov nods. “Take it easy landing on that left leg, it looks stiff.” He points at my face as if to snag my attention. “ _Let the spotter catch you._ ”

I nod again, hoping my face is as earnest as I feel.

He releases me with a flick of his hand. “When I’ve spoken to Dr. Petrova, take your turn after Mila.”

Oh.

I follow the direction of his point and find Mila in the harness, working on the combination jump that cost her gold all last year.

 _Yakov, you devil._ Throwing me a bone and teaching me a hard lesson in one go.

* * *

About the time I finish my warmups, I look for Yakov. At his nod and head gesture toward Mila, I take a deep breath and skate slowly her way, waving off one enthusiastic youngster who offers to give up his harness for me. I’m not a selfish asshole. Now I just have to prove it to the young woman who’s just flubbed her combination, saved from hitting the ice by the rugby-sized spotter at the other end of her catch line.

Mila mutters a curse under her breath, awkwardly righting herself and squaring up for another attempt. Studiously pretending not to notice my approach.

I watch, turning out my stiff left hip to stretch it, silently analyzing while she tries again. Fails again. Gets up again, blowing a stray hunk of hair out of her face as she catches my eye and glares.

“You’re underrotating and too busy fighting for your first landing to set up for the second jump. Pull your arms in quicker and tighter to your axis.”

For a second, she looks as if she’s about to tell me to go away and annoy someone else. Then her shoulders slump. “That’s what Yakov told me, and had another girl demonstrate.” She gestures at the chest that no amount of dieting will reduce. She’s by no means hugely endowed, but she’s not flat, either. “I can’t tuck any closer. I’m not like these younger girls built like sticks.”

On the other side of the boards, Yakov moves into my line of vision, watching. He undoubtedly knows, through the ever-efficient rink grapevine, what went down between Mila and me. He’s letting us work it out like adults, which he knows I can be. On occasion.

I return my attention to Mila. “You don’t need to be a stick. You just need the right technique. This time, just take off and let the spotter hold you up while you spin.”

She stands still, hands on hips, staring at me. Waiting.

I resist the urge to dig my toe pick into the ice like a penitent child. Which, of course, I am. I swallow and meet her level gaze. “I’m sorry, Mila. You didn’t deserve what I said to you earlier.” I start to launch into an excuse—my fatigue, my pain, the meds and their side effects, my worry for Yuuri, things no one outside a very few people are supposed to know—but think better of it. “You’ve come so far, and still you have so much potential. Sometimes I get a sense you think you’ve reached your limit, that silver is the best you’ll ever do. I don’t think that’s true, Mila. You could be standing at the top of every podium you aim for. You _should_ be.”

Surprise sends her eyebrows skyward. Well, most people probably assume I don’t observe anyone but myself in a mirror. They’d be wrong.

Years of surface-level friendship balances between us, tips, lands softly in forgiving territory. Her shoulders relax, her face pinkening at my praise. “Okay,” she says. Simple as that. “Now, you were saying about tucking tighter?”

A breath eases out of my chest and I smile. “Let me just see how you’re rotating, and we’ll go from there.”

She nods, positions herself, and launches the jump. The spotter holds her in the air while she spins, an auburn-haired blur.

“Okay, stop,” I order, and she opens up and slows until the spotter gently lowers her to the ice. “Your feet and legs are perfect. It’s definitely your arm position,” I say as she rights herself, this time with an intent look of concentration on her face, not frustration. I hesitate, because I teach better by showing, not telling, and trading in and out of the harness is impractical. “Try this. Um…Wrap your left arm tight around your waist instead of trying to cross both over your, uh…between your, uh…”

She smirks. “Boobs, Vitya. They’re called boobs.”

We grin at each other and we’re off and running. By the time it’s my turn in the harness, she’s landing the combination at least half the time to the cheers of the crowd of juniors who’ve gathered around us. Then she leads the impromptu cheer squad as we trade places and I experiment with executing reverse loops, sals, and axels until I’m dizzy and tired. And a bit annoyed because the spotter—probably under threat of death from Yakov—won’t let me land properly, using the catch line to take the pressure off my legs and back.

Sometimes he pulls so hard that instead of landing, I dangle/dance around on my toe picks until I’m let down. It’s hard to care. I’m flying again. Surely it’s only a matter of time until the meds do their work and I’m back up to speed. Skating in a body that obeys my commands.

It’s an odd and pleasant feeling, not to feel like I’m working in a vacuum.

“Vitya!” Yakov yells from the sidelines. “That’s enough for today. You’re getting sloppy!”

As I undo the harness with fatigue-shaky arms, I catch Yakov eyeing me. He almost… _almost_ …smiles and lifts his chin as if to say _You did well, Vitya_.

Pride swells my chest, then my heart stutters as Yuuri enters the rink and begins his warmup laps. Face pale and eyes shadowed. Barely looking my way.

One more bridge to repair.

* * *

It isn’t going well.

I blink at Yuuri, standing twenty feet away from me on the ice. Flushed. Sweating. Perfectly still except for the deep rise and fall of his panting chest, the frustrated clenching and unclenching of his hands. The other skaters circling the rink give us a wide berth, as if sensing a pending explosion.

I work hard to suppress the shivers trying to wrack my body. I’d been soaked in sweat after the jump harness training and forgot to throw on a jacket before going straight into training time with Yuuri. I’m paying for it now. It’s fucking cold out here when you’re just standing around in damp clothes on a slab of ice.

During our fast-paced sessions, I’m usually skating beside him, Yuuri mirroring my movements and adding his own, responding to my clipped “Again” with an equally clipped “ _Hai_.”

Not this time.

“Excuse me?”

“I said no, Victor. I know I’m flutzing. It’s the new entry. I’ll get it. Just…tell me what I’m doing wrong or let’s move on to something else and I’ll figure it later out on my own.”

This isn’t how it works between us. If he’s making a mistake or learning new choreography, I demonstrate what I want out of him, he takes it and runs with it. There are sessions we don’t even utter full sentences to each other. My physical restrictions have changed everything.

It’s like translating your second language into a third you’ve never learned to speak.

With fatigue, medication side-effect crankiness, and today’s touchy stomach—which prevented me from wanting any food—words just aren’t putting themselves together in any useful order.

I shove a hand through my hair. Under my gloves, my fingertips are probably blue with cold. “Look, I’ll just show you the changes in the sequence up to the takeoff.”

“ _No_.” Yuuri’s adamant, his voice uncharacteristically rising in volume. “Watch me and tell me how to fix it.”

He runs the approach sequence again, designed to distract with choreography before surprising everyone with the jump that seems to come of nowhere. He flutzes again, the wrong takeoff edge turning a planned flip into a lutz. Usually, skaters accidentally turn a lutz into a flip. Trust my brilliant Yuuri to discover a whole new way to make the mistake backwards. It makes me want to smile.

I can instantly visualize how to fix the problem. The words to describe it refuse to organize themselves in my fatigue-fogged brain. Yuuri is watching me, wiping his brow with a gloved hand, those sparks of frustration I’ve seen before flicking off his fingertips.

I give up trying to rein in my mental flailing. “Watch.” I push off and stroke away, damning that freaking left hip that refuses to fully loosen up. Worsened by my failure to cool down and bundle up properly.

“Victor.” Anger flares in Yuuri’s voice, almost giving me pause. Showing strong emotion in public is not his way. He mutters something else, but it’s drowned by the hiss of my blades on the ice.

I keep going, skating halfway down the rink to give myself room, then slip into the sequence. “Turn this part into a rocker, then make this edge deeper right here…that’ll put you in the right position to—”

I don’t mean to jump. I was going to stop right after the tweaked part, but muscle memory takes over. Or some defiant part of myself rattling its cage. It’s only a double, and my healing ankle takes the landing well. My back, not so much. A thin thread of fire travels from my left mid-thigh all the way to up to the base of my skull, but I hold steady against it, pivot to grin at Yuuri. _Did you see that? Did you see?_

Yuuri’s hopping on one foot through the double doors to the outer hall as he snaps on a skate guard. The doors swing shut behind him.

Leaving me standing on the ice alone.

_Let’s end this._

That particular gut punch emerges from a place I’d thought we’d put behind us forever. It takes almost a full minute for the shock to abate enough so I can move, my flagging energy sputtering like a gas-starved engine.

Pushing from underneath the conviction that I’ve fucked up royally, logic tries to reassert itself. Compared to some of the coach/skater screaming matches these walls have witnessed, this is barely a blip. What few skaters are left in the rink don’t spare me so much as a glance as I skate slowly to the barrier and retrieve my skate guards, my legs numb with cold and shaking as I step out onto blade-safe mat. I grab the top of the boards with one hand and attempt to snap the guards on.

I can’t seem to quite lift my foot within reach. My arms are noodles, my spine has left the building. It’s as if when Yuuri left, he took with him the last of my will to stand up.

Finally, I wobble two steps to the nearest wall, put my back to it, slide down to the floor. Bend with a grunt to reach for my left skate and drag it across my opposite knee. _Snap._ One guard on. Straighten left leg. Bend. Grab right foot, repeat process. _Snap._

Aaand that’s about it. I leave my right foot where it is and rest against the wall. My golden blades gleam mockingly at me. As if laughing at the fact that now that I’m down on the floor, there’s a good chance I’m not getting up on my own.

I’ll have to ask for help.

I don’t even have the energy to react to that thought. It’s like I’ve been hockey-checked into a concrete wall, and my body is stuck in that numb, airless limbo between impact and holy- _shit_ -that-hurts.

I rest my head against the wall behind me and close my eyes. Shiver a little, the chill of the rink creeping across my bones like frost across a window. Everything I need is out of reach. My jacket. Water. Phone.

Yuuri.

Maybe in a few minutes I’ll be able to crawl on my hands and knees to a seat and lever myself up. If the relentless cold of the rink doesn’t get me first.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there when a frightened whisper sounds from my left.

“Mr. Nikiforov? Did you hurt your ankle again?”

I manage to crack open one eye. It’s a younger junior skater, one of the new generation who looks 12 but is probably closer to 15, dark eyes wide under her scraped-back golden hair, her small, delicate chin trembling.

The ankle. _Oh, my dear, if only it was just the damned ankle._

“I’m all right, sweetheart.” I whisper back. “I’m just a tired old man.” I lift a finger to my lips, let it fall back to my lap. “Don’t tell Plisetsky.”

She leans in closer. “Should I find Coach Feltsman?” At my involuntary grimace, her little face scrunches in thought, then brightens. “What about Mr. Katsuki?”

I squeeze my eyes tighter against tears and swallow what’s left of my pride. “Yes. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Blyat (Блядь)– fuck 
> 
> Next week: The conclusion of what was originally one super-long chapter. Comfort and sex, carb overload, and Yuuri buries his anxiety deeper.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Sorry for the quick update. I realized I'd posted the wrong version of this chapter.
> 
> As always, love to netsirhc and Melissa Combs for beta reading. Without you pushing me to do better, this fic would be a mess. Thank you.
> 
> This was originally part of the legendarily super-long chapter 5, and contains the promised E-rating sexytimes. Many thanks for your understanding and patience! As it happens, the next chapter had to be split as well. (Why do my chapters end up like amoebas, growing bigger and bigger until they spontaneously divide? But I digress...) I've adjusted the chapter count to 18, but at this point the final chapter count is a moving target.

**_Yuuri_ **

I just need a minute to get some air so I can return to the ice ready to work. Instead of giving in to the urge to smack Victor upside the head.

It doesn’t occur to me until I’m splashing water on my face in the men’s restroom, how Victor might interpret my furious exit. Especially if he heard the “I’m out” I’d muttered under my breath.

Especially if he interpreted my walking away as _I want to end this_ and not _I’m taking five_.

My skate guards clack and slip dangerously as I hurry out to the hallway, where I catch sight of one of the juniors from my spin class waving both arms at me down by the rink doors. Once she has my attention, she darts back inside. My heart slams against my ribs as I trot as fast as I dare on the hard floor, push through the doors, and race to the barrier gate, gaze sweeping the ice for Victor.

He’s not there. The only people on the ice are a few workers preparing the rink for hockey practice.

“Over here, Mr. Katsuki,” pipes an almost-whispered voice to my left, as if hesitant to attract any extra attention.

I turn, and my hammering heart sinks straight down to my stomach. I run the three steps to Victor’s side and fall to my knees. He’s slumped on the floor against the wall, shivering, eyes squeezed shut. His companion crouches on his other side, a little Russian wolf cub protecting her alpha.

“Victor?”

At the sound of my voice, my touch on his shoulder, his eyes pop open and his mouth widens in the smile of a tapped-out angel. He makes a stab at holding out his arms for me, as if welcoming me back from the ice after a competitive program.

“You came back.”

I snort and intercept his cold hands, trying to rub some warmth back into them. “I just went to the toilet, _koibito,_ not the moon.” I glance at the girl whose worried gaze is bouncing between us and paste on a smile. “You know how it is—when you gotta go, you gotta go.”

His laugh catches into an almost-sob. Whatever wall he’s hit, he’s hit it hard. His public persona is either a mask of smiles or fierce concentration. Not this. Never this. The need to protect him cuts through whatever hurt hangs between us.

“I’m so sorry, Yuuri. I didn’t mean…I just wanted…”

I squeeze his hands and shake my head, fighting emotion trying to clog my throat. “I’m sorry, too, Victor. But we’ll straighten things out later, okay? Right now I need you to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.” I reach up and brush his fringe aside so I can see both his eyes. _Pupils equal, neither dilated nor shrunken._

“Tired. Just… _really_ wiped.” His eyebrows lift as if that’s the only part of his body that’s not offline. “But I think I can walk, if I can get a hand up.”

Well, that’s debatable, but I take him at his word and pull his arm across my shoulders. The girl makes to help on the other side, but Victor waves her off.

“I’m too big for you, little one. But thank you…what’s your name?”

A woman’s voice echoes from down the hall. “ _Natashaaa!”_

The girl winces. “That. I’m Natasha, and that’s my mother looking for me. I have to go.”

Mila chooses that moment to poke her head through the double doors. “Natasha, your mother – _Victor_?” she ends on a gasp.

I give Natasha a gentle nudge. “Go, Natasha. Mila, can you…?” The last thing Victor needs is yet another witness to his distress. Mila gestures for Natasha to hurry, but Victor grabs her hand as she pushes to her feet.

“Thank you, Natasha. See you tomorrow, okay?”

She blushes and squeezes back. “Sure, Mr. Nikiforov. Tomorrow.”

The doors swing shut on the two young women, and we’re alone save for the Zamboni driver and another worker setting up hockey nets. In a few minutes, the team will tumble onto the ice to start their warm-ups. My nerves jump with the need to get him out of here before too many eyes are within range.

“ ‘Mr. Nikiforov’,” Victor groans as I help him unfold from the floor and stand, clinging to my steadying arm.

“She’s respectful of her elders,” I point out, expecting and getting his snort of laughter.

“Ah, I see that savage Yuuri has come out to play.” He finds a smile as I lean him against the wall and dart around to gather our things. It’s pained and full of shadows, but hanging on.

“Can you walk to the locker room on your skates?” I mentally measure the distance against the tremors I can feel as I slip an arm around his waist, and he throws his across my shoulders.

He shifts his weight and we start walking, and I say nothing about the way he tries to finesse around the limp on his left leg. Something else to talk through when we get home. We emerge from the double doors for all the world like a skater and coach just having a casual, post-practice conversation.

“As long as I have you, Yuuri, I can go any distance.”

I fight against sudden blurriness in my eyes. “You have me, Victor.” _As long as you need me._

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

The meal I’m throwing together has way too many carbs. I’m too tired to care, hands too shaky to manage anything more complicated than boxed pasta and sauce from a jar. One of Victor’s guilty pleasures, his go-to for cheap, nearly effortless comfort food. Throw some bagged salad in a bowl and we’ll call it dinner.

I look at the box of linguine in my hand and sigh. Even with a half portion, it’s going to mean extra workout time for me. But Victor needs quick energy; his fat reserves have never been substantial. Like mine.

I put the box down and run the back of my hand across my damp forehead, my brain listing all the things I need to get done before I sleep tonight. Try to sleep, that is. Real, deep sleep has been an elusive thing since the day Victor tumbled to the ice. Ordinarily, one of my superpowers is the ability to drop off almost anytime, anywhere, no matter what chaos is going on around me. Not so much anymore.

Even when I can fall asleep, I see things in my dreams that wake me up in a cold sweat and send me running away from my sleeping Victor to work myself to staggering exhaustion on the treadmill. Heh. There’s an irony. Running away from my nightmares _on a treadmill._

“Are you going to let me apologize now?” Victor’s quiet voice emerges from a mournful blanket burrito on the couch. His vivid blue eyes track my every move around the kitchen. Makka curls helpfully around his feet, which had been blue with cold when I helped him pull his skates off in the locker room.

I toss him what I hope is a cheery smile over my shoulder as I doctor the sauce with some red wine and dried herbs from tins in the cabinet, roughly chopped veg and leftover chicken. “Food first, _koibito_. Then we can trade apologies, okay?”

A short silence. “You don’t owe me any apologies, Yuuri.”

I duck my head and turn to stir sauce and dump pasta into boiling water. “How about you tell me about your day? But it can wait if you want to shut your eyes for a few minutes until dinner’s ready.”

He props himself up a little bit. “It was my turn to cook.”

“You can make it up to me tomorrow,” I assure him with a wave of my wooden spoon. Dinner on autopilot for the next ten minutes or so, I move to the living room and settle on the floor next to him. His hand emerges from the blankets and as I take it, some of the worry lines on his still-puffy face ease. I want to roll my eyes at the unfairness of the universe, because even with the extra curves on his face Victor is still impossibly beautiful. “Now. How was your day?”

He rolls toward me, head supported on one hand. The hand wrapped in mine transmits the mild shivers still lingering in his body. “Let’s see. I hurt Mila’s feelings during ballet class at Lilia’s…”

Surprise jolts through me. “What? How?” This doesn’t sound like him at all. Victor might be thoughtless at times, but never cruel.

A faint blush dusts his cheekbones. “I meant to support her by offering advice on her training, and it…came out wrong. Lilia was riding me hard about my posture and left leg turnout, and I was getting frustrated, but…” He sighs. “There’s no need to chastise me. Yura backed me into a corner and shouted at me for, oh, a good ten minutes or so.”

“Uh…sorry I missed that show.”

“Oh! It gets better. I threw up in the locker room toilet…”

“You what??”

“My own fault,” he says, touching my hair as if smoothing raised hackles. “I didn’t listen to you this morning and swallowed my meds without food.”

I bury my face in my free hand. “Vityaaa…”

“I know, I know. Lesson definitely learned. But!” He raises a finger. “Things started looking up when Dr. Petrova and Yakov cleared me to participate in a jump harness session…”

I look up. “ _Jump harness?_ ”

“I know, right?” His eyes brighten and his mouth quirks, amused at his own absurdity. “And Yakov partnered me with Mila, so I had to be a grownup and apologize.” He leans in as if sharing a secret. “In _person_!”

Laughter bubbles over. I can’t help it. “God, I wish I’d been there.”

He settles back. “You almost were. You came in right after I’d finished. It…felt good to get off the ground again.”

I sigh and kiss his knuckles. “And I ruined your day.”

“Not at all, my Yuuri. I did that all by myself. But,” he shifts again, curling into himself on his side. I know it’s because his back is hurting. “I think we need to talk about some things.”

I circle my thumbs on the back of his hand, which warms under my tingling fingertips. The sensation is followed, oddly, by the almost overpowering urge to rest my head on the edge of the couch and shut my eyes. _Later. I can rest later._ “We do. If we survive the carb coma after dinner, we’ll talk.”

He grins, letting me go as I rise to plate up our food. Stretched taut between the number of unticked boxes on my mental to-do list, a desperate need to rest, and numbing fear of what I’ll see inside my nightmares.

* * *

**_Victor_ **

I didn’t think I’d have the energy to chew, much less wolf down a bucket load of pasta. But with every bite—and random, affectionate touches from Yuuri that doubled as gentle reminders not to let my back and shoulders hunch—by the time I was licking my plate like Makkachin, making Yuuri laugh, I felt almost human.

Fed, stretched (carefully, with my bulging stomach), physio-ed (muttering at my left hip), and showered, I crawl up from the foot of the bed to curl between Yuuri’s thighs and rest my head on his chest where he’s propped up against the headboard. With a happy little hum, he sets his tablet aside and cuddles me close, hands sliding up and down my back.

I nuzzle into his clean t-shirt, one of the soft, loose ones he likes to wear to bed. His hands leave behind a trail of pleasant tingles that eases my lingering aches and pains. I steel myself not to react when his hands sweep over bruises on my upper back, courtesy of the jump harness. There are matching sets on my upper chest and under my arms.

He tilts his head to one side to see my face. “Did you—”

“I stretched.”

“And—”

“Did my physio.”

“Take your—”

“—meds, yes. Oh, but…” I raise my head with a guilty grimace. “I didn’t take my midday dose.”

Yuuri smiles tenderly. “I know. I saw when I unpacked your lunch bag. You didn’t eat, either. I doubt skipping the meds hurt anything, but it’s not a great habit to get into. They work best if there’s a steady level in your bloodstream.”

I lower my head and close my eyes. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

He lays his cheek against my head, and I can feel his smile. “Okay, Scarlett.”

“Is that one of those obscure movie references you and Phichit are so fond of?”

His laugh reaches all the way down to his belly. It’s good to both feel and hear it. “I wouldn’t call it obscure. Maybe I’ll pull it up on Amazon this weekend and plunk you down in front of it for a few hours.”

“That…sounds like a punishment. Ah, well, after today, I probably deserve it.” I hold up my wrists as if they’re cuffed together. “I’m ready to serve my time, Officer Yuuri.”

His breath catches. Hmm. We’ve been officially a couple for several months now, but role play hasn’t been a thing between us. Yet. He lets it go for now, but I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head.

He slides a hand down to stroke my left hip. “I asked Talia for some passive exercises I can help you do between PT sessions. It’ll help maintain your range of motion.”

I no longer ask how he always seems to know so much. I’m just grateful he’s at my side instead of thousands of miles away in Japan.

I sit up and turn to him, situating myself so we’re facing each other, legs intertwined except for my stubborn left one, which I stretch out. His right hand falls naturally on my thigh, thumb stroking absently as he focuses on me, heat soaking through the fabric of my lounge pants. I wonder fleetingly how his inner furnace never seems to falter.

“Tomorrow,” I say firmly. “Tomorrow you can join Talia’s torture team. Let’s talk through what happened today in training.” I suppose we should go back further, but talking about this morning means we’ll have to talk about what I saw last night. Something inside me flinches away from that subject. Training. Training is safer ground.

“I shouldn’t have walked away. I’m sorry, Victor.” Yuuri trips over himself to apologize.

I smile. “I’m equally at fault. I drove you to it. We were both tired and frustrated.”

Yuuri chuckles hopelessly and pinches the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses. “And the training season isn’t even in full swing yet. It’s still technically the off season. We have to find a better way to communicate, or…” He trails off and lifts a half-slumped shoulder.

“You’re right. Because of…” I gesture vaguely at myself, “…things, we’ll have come up with a whole new training language between us.”

“Exactly.” Yuuri's weary face brightens. “I’ve got a couple of ideas.”

Of course he does. When my lover’s focused on a mission, he’s unstoppable. Relentless. I dredge up a bit of energy from somewhere to try to match his enthusiasm. “Let’s hear it!”

“Okay.” He picks up his tablet and waves it at me. “You’ve always been a show-er, not a teller, so watching me and showing me corrections with your own body doesn’t work. At least not right now. Record me with your phone or the tablet, and we can go over it together. It’ll add an extra step we’re not used to, but it might cut the frustration factor way down.”

I nod. It makes perfect sense. “And?”

“And I think we—you—have to be more mindful of when you’re getting close to hitting the wall. Let’s look at ways to build more rest breaks, more flexibility, into your day. From what you told me, you were going full-barrel, non-stop until you just…ran out of steam.”

“I’ve run out of steam before, but it’s…it’s different now.”

He leans forward and brushes his fingers through my hair. “It is different. But not necessarily the worst thing that could happen. At this point in your career, your body knows what to do. Let’s try giving it what it needs to perform, not work it until it breaks.”

“It’s only going to get harder the closer we get to the start of the season.” I take a breath and, for Yuuri, peel back a tiny corner of my box of worries. “I used to enjoy this process—the preparation, the planning, the audience reaction when I unveiled my next surprise. Now, since I’m basically recycling old programs, I have to admit, I’m…a little bit…nervous?” I clamp my jaw to keep two soul-killing words from escaping that box. _Fear. Failure._

Both Yuuri’s hands are on my slumped shoulders, his expression thoughtful. “What if you use basically the same choreography, but apply it to a different piece of music? Especially your long program. It’s classical, and a good deal of classical pieces have similar structures.”

A little of my old excitement stirs. He’s right. “I can do that. I’ll start looking for music tomorrow!”

He smiles tenderly. “This is a conversation we—you—need to have with Yakov. He needs as much information as he can get. He needs to know that what looks like slacking off is a change in tactics.”

I hook my fingers over his wrists, quirk a grin at him. “You can say ‘we’. Yakov has resigned himself to the fact we’re a packaged deal.”

“And, soon, competitors,” he grins back.

“Competitors,” I agree, stroking his arms. His amber-brown eyes darken. “But right now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to just be lovers.” I lean in and brush my lips over his. So ready to push my worries and stress aside and just _be_ in Yuuri’s arms for a while. In spite of everything, we still have this. _Please God, don't let this beast inside me take this, too._

He rests his forehead against mine. “You’ve had a long day. If you’re not up for it, it’s okay.”

“My body may be wrung out, _moya lyubov_ ,” I laugh softly, “but the spirit is definitely willing, if you are.”

His hands are already roaming, leaving tingles shimmering in their wake. “Let me take care of you?”

Something inside me twists uncomfortably. I’d wanted to take care of him, for a change. For the past several weeks he’s done nothing but rescue me. But I nod and let him take over. I’m simply too tired to insist on getting my way.

It’s like I’m outside myself, a bemused observer, as Yuuri undresses me. Brow furrowing as he skims his fingertips over bruises on my upper chest, courtesy of the jump harness. I say nothing to draw his attention to the matching set I can feel on my upper back. I take his hands away and kiss his palms, subtly sliding my feet under the sheet so he won’t see the fresh bruises above my ankles, left by my skate boots.

“It’s nothing, Yuuri. Put some of your magic salve on it later, _da_? Right now, just…please?” _Can we have just this between us?_

He nods, bends quickly to plant kisses on the purple blotches, then moves on. Arranges me tenderly on my back, pillows supporting my knees and various sore places. Straddles my hips to give me a close-up strip tease. Grasps my wrists when I hungrily reach for him, places them over my head with a whispered command to relax and enjoy.

"Yuuri..." I moan, hard, helpless, sweat breaking out on my skin as he finds the lube and does wicked things to himself to prepare his body. I can’t hold back a little pout. Preparing him, making him lose his mind, is my favorite part. I’m not, by nature, a passive sexual partner. I’m either in charge, or giving as good as I get. But as I lie perfectly still, the tension building inside me is sweet torture. I embrace it for Yuuri. Because it seems like the less I move, the freer he is to let go, head thrown back, face contorted in aching ecstasy as one hand moves behind him, the other drifts across his own chest to pinch his nipples.

But when he positions himself and begins to sink down on my aching cock, my half-scream and arched back has him stopping what he’s doing, one hand firmly on my chest until I subside, gasping, flat on the bed.

“Ah, ah, ah, Victor. You move, I stop.”

I exhale a shaky laugh and grip the pillows above my head. “Cruel Yuuri…”

“That’s better,” he croons, breath catching as he takes me inside him a little more.

“Am I—” I swallow hard. “—allowed to talk?”

Another inch. “You can do whatever you want with your tongue.”

Almost before he finishes the sentence, I unleash a torrent of Russian, alternately begging for mercy and calling him and his ancestors every name in the book. Promising him everything I own and ever will own if he’ll _just let me fucking move,_ and crafting intricate, satisfying plots for revenge that will either make him regret this night, or make it part of our regular repertoire. Sprinkled liberally throughout with _lyublyu tebya lyublyu tebya..._

Suddenly I’m balls deep inside him. My throat opens in a soundless cry, my hips tilt in an involuntary thrust. If my back doesn’t like it, I’m too far gone to feel it.

Yuuri’s powerful thighs hold his weight off me and he stills, one hand fisted in his own hair, the knuckles of the other white as he grips his cock to keep from coming. His control is an almost terrible beauty to behold.

“I…told you…” he gasps, “You move…I… _fuck…_ I stop.”

Somehow, between excruciating pleasure and struggling to obey him, I remember to take another breath. “ _Pozhalyusta,_ ” I groan. “Yuuri, _please_.”

With a shaky laugh, he runs his palms up my sweat-slick torso. On my skin, fire trails after them. “Such a nice, polite Russian boy. So good for me.”

My eyes almost roll back in my head, something about the combination of his touch, his tone, his phrasing, pushing me right to the edge. I don’t know where this reaction is coming from. It’s at once confusing and thrilling.

His grin turns filthy as he flicks his thumbs over my nipples, and the edge crumbles out from underneath me. White-hot pleasure sheets through my body, sweeping away every ache and pain, muting every worry and fear. Somewhere amid the static I’m dimly aware I’m crying out. Over and over.

I look up to find Yuuri, eyes closed, brow furrowed as he strokes himself, intent on following me. Something surges up from my core, and with strength that comes from nowhere, I grab his shoulders and flip him to his back. My softening cock slips easily out of him as I place one firm hand on his sweat-damp chest and slide down to take his cock in my mouth in one smooth gulp.

Yuuri is silent, save for desperate pants, and curls his torso up over my head. A man clearly in control though he’s no longer physically on top. He strokes my hair and speaks in broken whispers,

“Easy, love. Slow down, don’t hurt your neck. That’s… that’s it. Just like that.”

I find myself relaxing, allowing him to guide me for his pleasure, wondering dimly how he managed to turn the tables on me yet again. Too drunk on him to care.

His breath hitches and holds, and, recognizing this tell, I start swallowing, letting the contraction of my throat pull him over the edge.

He gives a short, sharp cry and comes. Holds his breath as the wave builds, cries out again as he lets go. Cradling his hips, I take every salty pulse until he collapses, flattened and trembling on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes.

I pull off him, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, though there’s really no need. Yuuri was buried too deep in my throat to lose a drop. I crawl up and collapse beside him. My body hums with residual endorphins that temporarily override pain with pleasure.

Yuuri lowers his arm and turns his head to smile at me.

“I love you, too,” he says, still breathing hard.

I’m already sliding blissfully toward unconsciousness, but I manage to mumble something that only widens his smile. Apparently, reducing me to a babbling mess pleases him. He shakes his head and, still smiling, sets about tucking me in for the night.

I’d almost give my left nut for a fraction of his endurance. Almost.

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

Once I’ve cleaned us both up and tucked Victor into his pillow nest with Makka at his back, I allow myself a few minutes to lie beside him, stopping just short of reaching out to touch him. The last thing I want to do is disturb his precious-as-gold rest. I suspect the endorphins flooding his system dulled his pain enough to ease him directly into deep, dreamless sleep.

I wish it would do the same for me.

Against my better judgment, I let my eyelids close. I’ll rest just for a minute, then get up to finish everything I should have gotten done earlier.

Just for a minute.

My eyes pop open to a dark room. At some point, I must have rolled over to turn off the light, then rolled back to take Victor’s hand between my own. The room is quiet. Eerily quiet.

The kind of quiet that screams _wrong._

Letting go of Victor’s cool hand, I sit up to check on him. Dread fills my belly.

He’s too still. His fingers and limbs aren’t twitching with dreams or meds’ side effects. His eyelids aren’t moving. His chest isn’t rising and falling.

He fucking _isn’t_ _breathing._

Panic shrieks through my body. Shouting his name, I grab his shoulder—his skin is cold—and roll him to his back. His eyes, half open, stare dully back at me. At nothing.

I jerk awake, muscles rigid, a scream trapped in my throat, blinking in the soft light of the bedside lamp. Half afraid of what I’ll see, I twist slowly, cautiously, toward Victor. Reach out to skim the backs of my fingers over his upper arm. It’s warm. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Makka raises her head and regards me curiously with liquid brown eyes. With a soft whine, she starts to rise as if to come to me, but I shush her and whisper, "Stay."

Releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, I collapse to my back, hand clamped over my trembling mouth, eyes squeezed shut against tears.

_Shit._

_This_ is why I can’t sleep. That dream—or some variation of it—is waiting to ambush me, every damned night.

It takes several minutes to bring my racing heart and ragged breathing under control. Then I edge my way out of bed, quietly gather my discarded clothes, and grab everything I need to work for the next couple hours.

It’s three before I finish checking and answering emails, listen to Ketevan’s latest iteration of my short program music and send back notes, pack our lunches for tomorrow—actually today. Set up Victor’s meds.

Some voice in the back of my head tsks that I’m not Victor’s mother, and he’s not a child. But I vowed to myself to keep him on the ice, and to me that means taking as much off his plate as possible, keeping his life as carefree as he’s accustomed to. In normal times we cheerfully split the chores, but I don’t want him wasting his limited energy on menial tasks when I’ve got stamina to spare.

I open the fridge to place our filled lunch bags inside, grimacing because it’s past time to identify mystery leftovers and throw them out. Grabbing a few containers, I notice a clear glass bottle on the back of the lowest shelf, “New Amsterdam” emblazoned on its black-and-white label.

I recognize that vodka bottle from the last time Chris came to visit for a long weekend. Between him and Victor, it’s a miracle there was any left over. I let the fridge door swing shut and move to empty containers and load them in the dishwasher. I think about the bottle.

Laundry occupies my hands for the next few minutes. While I think about the bottle.

Washing machine humming. I prop my hands on it and stare at the wall. Stare down the barrel of another sleepless night. Think about the curve of Victor’s hunched back, when he’s too tired to consciously fight the relentless pull of the AS.

I find myself in front of the open fridge, reaching for the bottle.

I twist off the cap, put the bottle to my lips, tip it up. Muffle an eruption of coughs with the back of my hand. Fuck, this stuff is strong. I look at the label and laugh quietly. 100 proof. Of course Christophe Giacometti would bring nothing but the best.

This is a terrible idea. A _really_ bad habit to develop. If ever there’s a hard lesson I’ve learned, it’s that booze is never the answer. Yet the bottle’s sleek, black label promises oblivion. Just this once.

I tip the bottle to my lips again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: (from Google translate - any mistakes are my own):  
> Blyat (Блядь)– fuck  
> Hai – yes or okay  
> Koibito – sweetheart  
> Pozhalyusta (пожалуйста) – please  
> lyublyu tebya (люблю тебя) – love you
> 
> Drink responsibly, friends.
> 
> Next up: Hard reality sets in for Victor, the paparazzi make life hell, and Yuuri comes up with a drastic solution.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> netsirhc and Melissa Combs – thank you for your beta work on this. And for holding my hand when emotions ran a little high for me.

_If you stumble, make it part of the dance.  
_~ Author unknown

** CHAPTER SEVEN **

**_Victor_ **

After I retire, the first thing I’m going to do is design a flattering, ass-covering, _warmer_ patient examination gown. With pockets. Not only will I become filthy rich, I’ll be loved the world over for eternity.

Victor Nikiforov, pretty good figure skater nobody remembers after a decade or two? Pfft. I’ll take Victor Nikiforov, universal savior of patient dignity.

I pull the too-short hem down over my knees—or, closer to them, anyway—as Dr. Sorokina bustles into the sparsely furnished, scrupulously clean exam room.

“Good morning, Victor,” she says as she sweeps over to the tiny desk and brings up my chart on the terminal. Her bespectacled gaze focuses on the screen as she scrolls through her MA’s preliminary notes and my most recent bloodwork results. “How are things going?”

“Better,” I respond promptly. “I’m anxious to ramp my training back up to normal intensity.” I try to ignore my mind’s eye image of Yuuri giving me _the look._ He wouldn’t have hesitated to come with me, but the appointment time was brutally early, and for once he’d been sleeping so peacefully. I hadn’t had the heart to drag him out of bed.

Dr. Sorokina smiles absently, focused on scanning and scrolling through screens. Images flash by—charts, grids of numbers, reports, images of my latest x-rays and MRIs. Then she swivels toward me and pins me with a penetrating gaze.

“I say this to all my patients, Victor. In this room, there are no secrets, no half-truths, no sugar-coating. I insist upon it from you, and you can count on it from me.”

Looks like I didn’t need to bring Yuuri after all. Dr. S. has that same sees-through-all-bullshit gift.

She shifts forward. “This is a safe place. I will never judge you, and—trust me—you cannot shock me.”

I blink at her for a second, glance down at my lap, where my fingers are twisting together. I force myself to relax them flat on my thighs.

“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay. I think my pain level is down, in the mornings, especially. I can get up and move around more easily. I haven’t run a fever for a couple of weeks.”

She nods and begins typing notes. “Good, good. What else?”

Time for the negative side of my new life. “I’m having trouble with nausea, if I’m not careful to take my meds on a full stomach. And my left leg and hip—pain and inflexibility. My physio therapist says it’s because I’m favoring my right ankle.”

She nods and hums as she processes the information. “That’s correct.”

“I’m maintaining passive range of motion,” I go on, “but it never quite seems to loosen up in actual practice. Also, fatigue is a major issue. One day last week I pushed too hard and…I can’t describe it other than I hit a wall.”

She types more, then looks up at me. “Scary, wasn’t it?”

I huff out a laugh and nod. I don’t know who’d been more scared, me or Yuuri.

“The majority of my patients,” she continues, “report that fatigue is their worst symptom, even when they’re in remission. It’s tough to learn to recognize when you’re about to hit that wall until it’s smacking you in the face. Medical research is still working on the cause and the solution. Suffice to say there’s a war going on in your body, and both sides are using up your resources. It’s no wonder patients are tired all the time.”

“No kidding,” I say, an odd sense of relief washing through me at being heard and understood.

She taps the screen with a fingertip. “Your bloodwork shows your numbers are improving. Your inflammation indicators are still elevated but closer than they were to normal range, and your liver and kidneys are maintaining normal function.”

I have to admit I haven’t worried much about my liver. Since Yuuri became a permanent fixture in my life, I’ve traded recreational drinking for quiet nights at home. Except when Chris drops in for a long weekend.

I glance down at my abdomen and pat it gently. “Hang in there, boys!”

She laughs, dark eyes sparkling. “I like your sense of humor, Victor. It will serve you well in the years ahead.”

It takes some force of will to freeze my smile to my face. _Years. A lifetime._ The reality of my uncertain future stretches out before me. Something within me twists in anger. I didn’t sign up for this.

 _Yuuri_ didn’t sign up for this.

At some point, is he going to decide he’s had enough? A bolt of fear joins the anger, forming a bristly knot in the center of my chest. I stuff both back into its box for later examination. Right now, I need to focus and listen.

“Though you continue to have pain and stiffness,” she goes on, “I see no significant deterioration from your last set of x-rays to now. So, it looks like the medications are gaining some traction.”

“That’s good news, right?” I imagine the smile that’ll put on Yuuri’s face.

She nods and rises to her feet, whipping her stethoscope over her head. “Very good news.” She takes a minute to listen to my heart and lungs, then peers into my ears and eyes with a bright light. She flicks it back and forth in front of each pupil. “Any sensitivity or discomfort when I do this?”

I shake my head no.

“Good. I’ll refer you to an ophthalmologist just to get baseline readings. In the meantime, always wear those fabulous Prada sunglasses of yours when you’re outside. If you never notice any changes in your eyesight, find yourself squinting in bright light, call immediately. Yes?”

Excellent. Something else that could go horribly wrong. “Yes ma’am,”

She puts the scope away. “I’d like to switch your anti-inflammatory medication to something that works a little differently. Maybe that’ll get us over the hump with your CRP and sed rate. And I’ll give you something that should help with nausea.”

If Yuuri was here, he’d be stopping her to ask what a word salad like “CRP” and “sed rate” means. I just want to wrap this up and get out of here, so I make a mental note to tell him and look it up later, together. “If I eat, I’m fine. I just have to make sure I take the time.” _If I don’t, Yuuri will._

“I’ll give it to you anyway. Keep it around for those occasions your schedule gets crazy.” She begins a thorough, hands-on examination of all my joints, beginning with my fingers and working all the way down to my toes. Asking me to give a pain level on a scale of 1 to 10 as she manipulates each joint.

“Your feet and ankles are definitely less swollen,” she observes. “Lie flat on your back and we’ll check out this troublesome hip.”

I comply, suppressing a shiver in the cool room, wishing I had Yuuri’s warm hand in mine. Dr. S. has me relax my muscles as she moves my leg in different directions, constantly asking for feedback. “Now flip over so I can look at your back.”

I obey, trying and failing to keep my backside covered. Happily, I was allowed to keep my underwear on. Even more happily, I remembered not to go commando today.

She bends my knee to ninety degrees and checks my hip rotation, presses fingertips along my lower back. A few sensitive spots make me tighten up and swallow a groan.

“Remember, you’re encouraged to say ‘ow’, Victor.”

“Okay, that spot near my left sacroiliac joint is a level-seven ‘ow’.”

“What a treat to have a patient who knows his joints,” she says wryly.

I smile into my crossed arms. “You can thank Lilia Baranovskaya for that. She insists her students not only perfect each position and exercise, but memorize each tendon, muscle, and joint involved.”

“Smart lady. Does it hurt all the time, or just when I press on it?”

“Pressing’s a seven. No pressure…probably a four.”

“The left side—where’s the pain, exactly? Groin area, or the outside?”

“Um, both, actually. More stiff and sore, not like my back.”

She makes a concerned sound. “I didn’t see anything unusual on your latest x-ray, but I’ll order a different set of scans to study the hip joints in detail.”

Her fingers move on. “I’m aware athletes at your level are used to ignoring a certain level of pain. You’ll need to start paying attention to it, though, especially pain that doesn’t subside a few hours after a workout.” She presses a few more spots. A few more ows. “All right. You can sit up.”

As I right myself, she types rapidly at her terminal, lips moving as if she’s talking to herself. I wait quietly, though inside I’m itching to hear her verdict. Telling myself to pay close attention so I can repeat everything to Yuuri later.

“I’m writing some notes to the physical therapist about your back and hip. It may sound counterintuitive, but ice packs are your friend. I think the new NSAID—anti-inflammatory—will help. Give it about a week to ramp up in your system. The good news is, you only have to take this one once a day instead of three like the old one.”

I give a silent fist pump. _Yes._

“Also,” she taps her finger on the screen again. “I’m considering switching this medication—the methotrexate—from pills to an injectable form. The shots take your stomach out of the equation, so you’ll have much less nausea. And less strain on the liver. I know it’s an extra stick for you, but…” At my silence, she looks up at me, tilts her head like a curious bird. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Ugh. I must be turning green again. “Nothing. I’m fine, Dr. S.”

She swivels fully toward me on her stool, hands folded in her lap in that all-too-familiar pose. “Victor. Remember, all truth, all the time in this room.”

I look down at my hands and shake my head. “It’s embarrassing.”

Her voice softens. “Is it the needles?”

I nod, mute. At least Yuuri isn’t here to witness the shaky breath I draw.

She scoots closer to me, patting my knee. “You’re not alone in this. Many patients struggle with a fear of needles. You’ve been incredibly brave, enduring all these pokes without a word, but there are things we can do to make it easier. If anxiety becomes an issue, we can help with that, too.”

I try to keep my smile from wobbling. “My fiancé, Yuuri, has been incredible. He researches all the things, and he knows all the tricks.”

She smiles. “He’s a good man. You’re lucky to have him.”

 _By my side._ I smile and ferociously refuse to let tears gather in my eyes. “I am.”

She catches my gaze and holds it. “It sounds like he’s taking good care of you. Tell him, from me, to take care of himself, too.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this. I frown a little, and file it away for later thought.

“If it helps,” she continues, “my patients tell me the medication itself is painless. All you’ll feel is the little pinch of the needle itself, and some say they barely feel that.” She holds up a thumb and a forefinger, close together. “Tiny needle. Like diabetics use to inject insulin.”

I haul in a breath, nod, make a decision. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

She scoots back swivels to her terminal, rattling off more mind-numbing details. “It’s once a week, just like the tablets, and take the folic acid 24 hours later, just like before. And, as before, don’t inject it on the same day as the biologic pen. I’m inputting the new meds into the system, so you should get a delivery within a day or two. In the meantime, I have samples of the new NSAID I can give you. Did you take the old one this morning?”

My head spinning with all I need to remember to tell Yuuri, I shake my head as I reach for my clothes. “Not yet. I’d planned to take my morning dose with breakfast after I leave here.”

She clicks to a different screen. “I don’t see any allergies listed in your chart. Accurate?”

I think hard, but other than a mild rash several years ago when I took an antibiotic, hardly worth mentioning, nothing comes to mind. “As far as I know.”

“Good. I’ll give you a sheet listing possible side effects, along with a visit summary you can share with Yuuri. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any concerns.”

Her gaze meets mine and I return her smile. “I will. Um…”

“Question?”

“My training restrictions…still in place?”

She pulls a regretful face. “Give it a week on this new NSAID, and we’ll do another blood draw and go from there. If the numbers are still coming down, we’ll talk. Continue concentrating on strength and flexibility. No jumps. And—” she pokes me lightly on the front of one shoulder, then the other, “—watch your posture. We don’t want this fashion-model-hunched-shoulder look to become permanent.”

I’m more than a little crestfallen, but on my way out—stuffing Dr. S.’s printouts in my pocket without reading them—the constant cloud of dread that’s been hanging over me seems a little thinner, and there’s something beginning to peek through it. Hope.

* * *

Within an hour of returning to the rink—breakfast and new NSAID in my stomach—all those good feelings disappear.

I shake out my hands and arms as I skate my warm ups. My limbs feel odd. Tingly, itchy. I pull back the long sleeve of my shirt; my skin is covered in red blotches. Sweat pops out on my forehead, my insides feel quivery, and worst of all, I have some kind of weird lump in my throat.

 _Anxiety,_ I tell myself. _That’s all it is. A delayed reaction to the stress of the doctor appointment._ I force myself to focus, breathing in and out in controlled, measured repetitions like Yuuri does on his bad days.

As if summoned, Yuuri skims across the ice to meet me, gaze sweeping me up and down. “How did it go?” If he’s disappointed that I didn’t wake him to take him with me, it’s hidden behind his quiet public smile.

“Good. Training restrictions haven’t been lifted, but—” _inhale, exhale_ “—my bloodwork is looking better.”

He grins, the sun coming out. “Yeah?”

I nod and try to keep my answers short so I don’t end up gasping like a beached fish. “Give you the blow by blow, later, okay?”

The shadows around his eyes seem to lift a bit. “It’s a date.”

I jerk my chin at the rink. “Back to work, Katsuki. Coach is watching.”

He salutes and starts to skate away, but he catches me bending over to prop my hands on my knees. He circles quickly back around. “What is it?”

I wave him off. “Nothing. I just can’t…”

My next breath doesn’t come.

I try to gasp. Nothing. It’s like someone stuffed a cork down my airway, igniting instant panic. Yuuri touches my shoulder, and I flail with one arm, clutch his shirt. I manage to raise my head far enough to meet his eyes.

His go round in alarm. “Victor, can you talk?”

My vision going grey at the edges, I frantically shake my head, the other hand going to my throat in the universal gesture of distress. The world tilts, contracts. Yuuri’s arms snake around me, going with me to my knees. Dimly, I hear him shout. In Russian.

“Yakov! It’s Vitya! _Pomogi mne!_ ”

I dig my fingertips into the ice, press my forehead to its freezing surface as if my old friend will help, but Yuuri wrenches me backward until I’m lying flat. He yanks at my clothing, pulling it away from my throat. I reach wildly for him, sink my fingers into his biceps. Inside, I scream for help. Nothing comes out.

There’s commotion around me. Yakov’s calm, gravelly voice, cutting in and out like a weak radio station.

_You, call 112. You, grab the AED off the wall._

_…Petrova? It’s Yakov. There’s a…he can’t…no. Yes. I’ll ask her…_

I lock eyes with Yuuri. He’s all that’s left in the narrowing tunnel of my vision. He’s saying something. Tears in his eyes. Something warm splashes on my face.

_…hold on…_

… _got it…_

Something stings my upper thigh. Yuuri’s stricken expression is all I can see as I fight to keep my vision from going completely dark.

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

The next thirty seconds are the longest of my life.

Victor convulses, his powerful body violently protesting the abrupt lack of oxygen. All I can do is brace his head with my hands to keep him from smacking it on the ice. His skin is a terrifying shade of blue, his lips purple. His eyes are going glassy.

I cast about wildly and find Yakov flipping open the automatic defibrillator box, face creased in a worried frown. “Is it going to work? What if it—”

“It’ll work.” Stalwart little Natasha hovers next to me, spent epinephrine pen dangling from her fingers. Her free hand lands on my shoulder. “Trust me.”

“Okay. Okay.” For the first time, I notice Yura crouched on my other side, eyes huge in his white face. Fists clenched to his chest as if he wants to _do_ something, but can’t. I know the feeling.

Mila pulls him a few feet away, murmuring something about giving Victor room. Room to thrash without slicing someone with his skate blades. Room to breathe.

If only he’d just _breathe_ …

It’s a scene straight out of my nightmares. Right now. Right in front of my eyes.

The rink is eerily quiet, all motion stopped, all eyes on us. I don’t care. I lean as close as I dare to his ear, my tears plopping on his pale cheeks. Without any apparent command from me, my hands move. One slips under his head, to the base of his skull. The other to the center of his chest. It feels like there are fire ants under my gloves, crawling, biting. I ignore it, chalking it up to my own anxiety doing crazy things.

He throws his head back, my hand underneath absorbing the impact against the ice.

“Come on, Vitya. You can do this. Take a breath.”

As if obeying me, Victor gasps. It’s an indescribably horrific sound. And just as beautiful. He goes limp as he gulps another breath. And another. Each one easier than the last. Coughing, he opens his eyes, pupils blown wide, and reaches for me.

I pull his shuddering body into my arms, uncaring that I’m sobbing out loud in relief. Dr. Petrova appears, her sharp gaze assessing, ordering he be turned on his side in case he throws up. Yura and Yakov lunge to help. Mila shoos anxious skaters away as, off in the distance, sirens approach.

His skin heats reassuringly under my burning hands as I stroke his head, his shoulders, his back. Breathe with him. His color starts returning to normal. He turns his head, snags my gaze, and reaches up to touch my wet face. His fingers are trembling. His whole body is trembling.

“I’m all right, Yuuri.”

I choke on a laugh. Half a minute ago he couldn’t breathe, and his first thought is to comfort me? I wipe my wet face with my sleeve. “Are not.”

He wheezes. “Am _too_.” But then he closes his eyes and another shudder wracks him.

Petrova takes his pulse, shines a penlight into his eyes, opens her kit to pull out a blood pressure cuff.

Viktor rallies, clearly uneasy being the center of this kind of attention. He tries to sit up, swallowing like his tongue is too big for his mouth. He spots Natasha and her epi pen and gives her a brilliant smile. “Was that you saving my life just now, little one? Amazing!”

Natasha blushes fiercely. “I’m just glad I happened to be here.”

Petrova sits back on her heels, dabbing her forehead with her sleeve. “You’re lucky, Victor. I was afraid I might not get to you in time, so I took a chance and asked Yakov if Natasha was practicing.”

“I’m allergic to bees,” our little wolf cub pipes up. “I carry a pen with me everywhere.”

“Thank you, Natasha,” I manage to croak. She blushes again and nods shyly, then melts away into the river of skaters who’ve resumed circling the rink _._

Petrova smiles after her, but the looks she aims at Victor is stern. “This reaction was severe, Victor, make no mistake. I’d recommend you start carrying an epi pen, too.”

“Dr. S. needs to be informed,” I put in, bracing Victor’s back against my chest.

Petrova nods. “I’ll call her in a moment. Let’s move you off the ice until the ambulance gets here.”

Victor groans as Yura, Yakov, and I get him up onto his blades and guide him off the ice. A smattering of applause breaks out across the rink.

“I don’t need an ambulance,” he insists, aiming a wave back at the applause.

“You need to be checked out and monitored for a delayed reaction,” Petrova informs him as she gathers her supplies back into their box. “The pen is just a stop-gap until help arrives.”

Victor looks my way, mouth pinched with distress. The media is going to love this. No way they’ll miss the screaming sirens and flashing lights barreling our way. His head sags, and he whispers so softly I barely hear: “Jesus, I can’t do this anymore.”

I want to cry all over again. These are words I’ve worked like a demon to make sure he never utters. I want to bundle him up and take him home right then and there, but Petrova is immovable on this issue.

We find a bench and settle him on it, and Petrova pulls out a tablet with, presumably, Victor’s file on screen.

“I see you don’t have any known allergies,” she says. “Can you think of anything that might have triggered this reaction? Anything different you ate?”

Victor shakes his head no, shoves his hair back with unsteady fingers.

“What about medications? Anything changed?”

His eyes widen. “Actually, yes.” His speech is clearing as the epinephrine continues to course through his system. “I saw Dr. Sorokina this morning and she changed my…what do you call it…N…”

“NSAID?” Petrova and I speak simultaneously.

He nods. “That’s it. She gave me a sample. It’s in my skate bag.”

“I’ll get it.” Yura sprints off on skateguarded feet.

“Wait, the lock combination…”

He snorts as he disappears around the corner. “Like I need that.”

I look at Victor, and he shrugs. “Maybe the rumors are true.”

“What rumors?”

Victor’s eyes, so recently closed in what looked like near death, crinkle in amusement. “You haven’t heard the one where Yura’s family allegedly has ties to Bratva?”

Even Petrova grins at that one.

Reaction must be setting in, because suddenly we’re both leaning drunkenly on each other, giggling hysterically.

Yakov, who doesn’t look up from putting away the AED: “Don’t laugh.”

We fall silent and stare at him. Did Yakov just make a _joke_?

“As I was saying,” Dr. Petrova cuts in with an eye roll. “You’ll need to be monitored for a few hours to make sure you don’t relapse. And…” Yura reappears and hands her a small, white bottle, drops Victor’s team jacket across his shoulders. “Just as I suspected. This is a sulfa-based drug. It’ll have to go in your record as a severe allergy. Never,” she rattles the bottle at him, “take this again, or anything with sulfa in it. Do you understand?”

Victor nods and leans against me. “I’ll remember.”

I’m pretty sure this is one lesson that won’t fall out of his brain.

His tremors are getting worse, probably a combination of the epi and his own adrenaline surge. Uncaring of who might be watching, I slip both arms around him. And silently add another box to tick on my mental to-do list: research all possible sulfa-containing meds Victor might come in contact with.

“Come on, let’s get your knife shoes off before the nice paramedics get here,” Yura mutters, going to his knees to start removing Victor’s skates. I let Victor go and join him on the floor, working on the other skate.

“Oh my god, you guys. I can take off my own skates!”

“Shut up.” Yura barks at Victor, then he jerks his chin at me. “You’re going with him. Go change.”

Oh. Yes. I start to rise, but Victor touches my shoulder, drawing my attention. Seeing the hesitation in his eyes, I start shaking my head because I know what he’s going to say. “No, Yuuri. I want you to stay. Continue your practice. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Yura’s brows slam together. “You’re kidding, right? You could have fucking _died_ just now.”

Victor leans closer, his voice dropping as a commotion down the hall signals the paramedics’ arrival. And probably a gaggle of ambulance-chasing media. “I’m not flying under the radar this time. The paparazzi are going to be all over this. Please…stay here where I know you’re safe.”

“ _I’m_ safe?” I hiss back. Is he serious right now? On Victor’s other side, Yura is grinding out a whisper in Victor’s ear, something that makes Victor set his jaw and minutely shake his head.

“I’ll be with him,” Yakov cuts in, voice gruff. “He won’t be alone, Yuuri.”

The protests tumbling through my mind screech to a halt. For over fifteen years, it’s been Team Victor-and-Yakov, with a bond that withstood almost a year of separation. No room in their well-oiled machine for a monkey wrench named Katsuki Yuuri.

But when I look into Yakov’s eyes, there’s no smugness, no triumph over the dime-a-dozen Japanese skater who took Victor out of the game. There’s only a question. _Will you do this for Victor?_

Resignation sets in. If I stay behind, Victor can focus his limited energy on recovery, not worrying about his dime-a-dozen fiancé breaking down in an anxiety attack. I look away and nod, a hollow space shaped like _not enough_ forming and growing in my chest.

For the rest of the day, Yura is my angry, foul-mouthed shadow.

* * *

**_Victor_ **

When I finally make it home, it’s almost dark. Exhaustion drags at my limbs, yet aftershocks from the epi continually shudder through my body. _Thank you, fast-twitch muscle fibers. Not._

They’d had to inject another dose when I’d started to crash again in the ambulance. And start an hours-long drip at the hospital. I don’t plan on sharing this detail with Yuuri. I begged Yakov to keep it to himself, much to his displeasure.

I find my key and with twitchy fingers start to unlock the door, but pause when I hear muffled shouts coming from inside.

_“You little shit-licking bastard!”_

_“Suck it, Katsudon. Suck my big, fat, hairy—what the fuck!?”_

_“Didn’t see that coming, did ya?”_

_“Aaaaauugh!”_

I lean my forehead against the door for a moment, smiling. My boys are bonding over _Mortal Kombat._ I draw a breath and let it out slowly, soaking in the sound of _normal_ on the other side of the door.

 _You’re putting that look on his face again, asshole._ Yura’s sandpaper whisper had scoured my ear back at the rink, before the paramedics whisked me away. _Fix it or I’m killing you in your sleep._

I have to fix this with Yuuri. Every minute he’s awake—which I suspect is all but a precious few hours at night—he’s focused on me and my needs at the expense of his own. I’m no longer ashamed to admit I do need him. I soak up his care like a desert-dry sponge that never seems to get saturated. It’s time for me to give back what little I’m able.

Turning to lean a shoulder against the door, too tired to fight gravity’s pull on my back, I fish my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my contacts.

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

“I’ll grant mercy this one time. I need another slice of pizza.” I pause _Mortal Kombat_ and drop my controller on the couch as I rise, shaking out my cramped fingers. My neck and shoulders are tight with fatigue, but I don’t tell Yura that. He doesn’t make a habit of hanging out with us old people. I want to enjoy it.

Yura curls a lip as he gets up, too. “I don’t need mercy. But I do need to take a leak.”

He flips me off as he heads for the bathroom, and I cheerfully reciprocate—and wince. There’s a bruise blooming on the back of that hand, the scant inch of flesh and bone that had protected Victor’s head from the ice.

Delivery pizza is spread out on the kitchen counter, a regular one for Yura and his supersonic metabolism, and a low-carb cauliflower crust version with grilled chicken for me. It’s good, but I gaze longingly at Yura’s loaded pie as I prop myself against the counter and pull out my phone with my free hand.

Victor’s been texting me an almost continual stream of silly pictures of himself ever since the paramedics whisked him away, except for a disconcerting 20-minute gap after the ambulance doors closed between us.

I’ll never forget the look on his face as they’d wheeled him away, strapped to a gurney with Yakov and that rugby-sized jump-harness spotter putting themselves bodily between him and some ambulance-chasing paparazzi. He’d wanted me with him. He’d done what he thought was best.

I thought he was wrong, but rinkside hadn’t been the place to pick that battle.

I grin at his last text, a picture of him flashing the peace sign, Prada sunglasses coolly shading his eyes, free arm thrown around the shoulders of a clearly annoyed Yakov. _Coming home,_ he’d typed. He must have sent it while Yura and I were locked in on-screen battle. Excitement bounces my pulse.

Then I take a closer look at his picture. His lips are as pale as his skin, his heart-shaped smile barely there. There are marks on his still-puffy cheeks where the oxygen mask dug in.

I flip to his Instagram account. Yep, along with thanks to his fans for expressing their concern is the same picture. Except he skillfully doctored out those tell-tale signs of just how serious his condition had been.

My mind starts racing with plans to take care of him when he walks through the door, but then, abruptly, I check myself. _Put your own mask on first, Yuuri._ Hoshi’s words come floating back from my memory.

No. Victor has to come first. He needs a break. From everything. Maybe even from me.

I open my contacts and start scrolling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Pomogi mne (Помоги мне) – Help me  
> Any translation errors are mine.
> 
> Sorry for the scare. 😊 Today’s lesson: If you’ve ever had any kind of reaction to something, no matter how mild, TELL YOUR DOCTOR. The next time you’re exposed to the same thing, the reaction might not be so mild. Listen to your body’s early warning system.
> 
> Terms and word salad:  
> • CRP: a blood test for C-reactive protein in the bloodstream, a measure of inflammation  
> • Sed rate: another blood test to measure inflammation  
> • Cortisone/prednisone: A cortico-steroid used to quickly reduce all kinds of inflammation in the body. Taken orally or by injection (under the skin or directly into a joint). Usually works astoundingly well, but side effects can be severe.  
> • Methotrexate: a generic medication that, decades ago, was originally used for cancer treatment, but was found to be effective (in smaller doses) for patients with autoimmune disease.  
> • Biologic: A class of autoimmune disease medication, usually delivered by injection or infusion.  
> • NSAID: Non-Steroidal Anti-Inflammatory Drug, such as aspirin, ibuprofen, Aleve, Tylenol, etc.  
> • What Victor’s allergic to: I don’t wish to use brand names in this story, but it’s a popular anti-inflammatory medication that people with sulfa allergies should avoid. Please check with your doctor if you’re not sure.
> 
> Next time: Victor is pushed beyond his limits, Yuuri talks with Chris, and Victor makes good on a promise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, much love and adoration to netsirhc and Melissa Combs for beta reading.
> 
> Thanks to all my readers for your comments and kudos. It means a lot. <3

** CHAPTER EIGHT **

****

**_Victor_ **

My body is humming when I step onto the ice the next morning. I don’t know if it’s an aftereffect of yesterday’s trauma, or the memory of Yuuri’s body imprinted all over mine from last night.

He’d lain on top of me like a blanket, our legs entwined, hands linked, his ear pressed to my chest over my heart. I soaked up his warmth, and my muscles relaxed long enough for me to get some sleep.

_“God, Yuuri, you feel so good. You’re like my own personal onsen.”_

_“Am I too heavy? Can you breathe with me—”_

_“Don’t move. I need you right where you are.”_

I’m a selfish bastard for not checking if he rested, too, but I’d dropped right off, and he seemed so happy this morning, as if energized with a new purpose. His eyes sparkled in that certain way they do when he’s planning something. I didn’t question it. I decided to shut up and be grateful for a good day. Give Yuuri extra kisses until he’s laughing when he peels himself out of my arms and heads off to his ballet class at a studio run by a friend of Minako’s.

After yesterday, I’ve decided any day at all I can get out of bed unaided is a gift. It’s time I start remembering that.

My phone rings as I drape my jacket over the barrier, alongside those of about a dozen skaters already on the ice. I glance around as I fish it out. Familiar faces are here, but no one I can attach a name to. Mila’s ice time must be different, and Yura’s taking a day off for his Grandfather’s birthday.

I tap to answer the call. “Yakov! Good morning!”

“What are you doing there, Vitya? Shouldn’t you be resting after yesterday?”

Ah. One of his assistant coaches must have ratted me out. He’s not taking me off the ice. No way. Yesterday’s drama cost me yet another day I can ill afford.

“I’m all right. I promise I’ll take it easy.”

“I don’t know, Vitya. I think you should talk to Dr.—”

I can’t restrain my frustrated growl. I’m so tired of holding back, checking in, doctors, appointments, needles, my life measured in doses of medication, living and dying by the results of my next blood test.

Can’t I just skate in peace? Just this once?

I gulp a breath, shove the anger back in the box before it spills out all over the rink. I force myself to sound as if I don’t have a care in the world. Same old Victor everyone knows and loves. “Please. I’ll be fine. If I start feeling bad, I’ll let someone know right away. I swear.”

He grunts noncommittally. “I’ll allow it. I’m scouting prospects at the rink across town, but remember, I’ve got eyes on you.”

I affect what I hope sounds like my normal, cheerful laugh—the one that never fails to make Yakov roll his eyes—and hang up. Skate away and find some comfort in the mindless repetition of my warm-up routine, gradually easing into a jump-free run-through of my recycled short program.

I haven’t yet told Yuuri that I found fresh music for both programs, and I’m tempted to hold onto it as a surprise. My agent is working on getting the rights to use the arrangements I like best. The piece playing in my head, I make small adjustments to my routine to fit, smoothly weaving around other skaters on the ice.

This is going to be a good day. I can feel it. My back is holding at a dull ache. My left hip is not perfect but better, and if I don’t overdo it, it might be even better tomorrow. My sprained right ankle almost healed. I remind myself to enjoy it, savor it, because who knows what this beast inside my body will gnaw on tomorrow?

Time, I remind myself. I have time. These routines are already ingrained in my muscle memory; there’s no reason to push myself at this stage. _Relax. Enjoy your last year in competition._ The best part is, without a completely new “surprise” to plan, I can spend more time working with Yuuri.

I find myself smiling on the ice for the first time in a long time.

Until, it seems, every phone in the rink stars blowing up with notifications. _Ding. Ding. Dingdingdingdingding._

I shred to a stop at the barrier, swallow some water, then check my phone. Instagram is, indeed, exploding. But it’s the missed call that raises my eyebrows. The sun isn’t even up in Switzerland yet. In the off season, Christophe Giacometti is a champion snoozer, not unlike Yuuri.

I consider texting him, but something tells me Chris wouldn’t call unless it’s something important. Like when he’d had to talk me down after Yuuri’s erotic, drunken pole dance and _paso doble_ after Sochi. I laugh at myself. The one Yuuri hadn’t even remembered until someone produced photographic evidence. He still hasn’t gotten over the embarrassment.

I tap to ring Chris’s number and as I wait for the call to connect, the hair on the back of my neck inexplicably stands up. I glance around, scanning the rink, and my eye catches on the announcer’s booth, a rectangular window set high on the wall.

I don’t see anyone, but the prickly sensation persists.

Chris answers on the first ring.

“What are you doing right now?” No greeting, his lazy, might-have-just-had-an-orgasm tone absent. He sounds oddly tense, like he’s been awake, and probably pacing, for hours. Another voice pipes up in the background.

_“Is it him?”_

My brows climb toward my hairline. “Is that Phichit?”

He makes an irritated sound. “He’s on Skype on my laptop, but that’s not important. Have you been online at all today? Had the TV on?”

“Er, no,” I say cautiously. “I haven’t had time. What is it?” For the first time, I look around and notice almost every skater in the rink checking their phones, glancing at me with shocked expressions, looking away before making eye contact.

Another call notification hits my phone. Yakov. Then Yura. I swipe them both to voicemail and put my back to the rink, my skin crawling. “Tell me.”

“Is Yuuri there?”

“ _Chris._ ”

He huffs out a hard breath. “First of all, thank you for not telling me what happened yesterday.”

Oh. “I—”

“It made the pictures just that much more heart-attack inducing.”

“ _What_ pictures?” Anyone entering this rink is strictly forbidden to take pictures and video except for training purposes. Who would break that trust?

“Of you, in the middle of some kind of collapse, with Yuuri weeping over your body. They’re speculating it was an overdose, so the shot someone gave you, of course, _must_ have been Narcan.” Sarcasm drips from his tone.

The blood drains from my head and I grasp the top of the barrier to stay on my feet. Chris is still talking through the roaring in my ears. I accidentally hang up on him as I hasten to open Instagram. Then Tumblr. Facebook. Google and Yahoo news.

Oh, shit. Oh, Jesus. Fucking. _Christ_.

There I am, down on the ice in all my blue-tinged glory, with Yuuri holding my head in his hands, his face contorted in agony. There are several different frames—one with Natasha stabbing her epi pen into my thigh (Why would the media make such a huge leap of logic that a child would be in possession of Narcan? Oh, right. Headlines. Speculation first, truth later.). Another with Dr. Petrova taking my pulse. All from the same camera angle. I glance up at the booth. _From there._

My stomach contracts; I clamp a hand over my mouth. I’ve been trained practically from day one in the Russian athletic system to handle intense media pressure. Manipulate it, control my image.

But for Yuuri, this will be nothing short of a violation.

Something inside me cracks. I’m dimly aware it’s the box where I’ve carefully sealed all my bad…stuff. Suddenly, fury is pouring through me. Fury at the monster squatting inside my body, chewing me up from the inside. At the press, destroying years of painstaking PR work with the click of a camera shutter. Exposing Yuuri at his most vulnerable, sweeping him up in their lies and insinuations.

It’s a sick kind of thrill—and distant horror—to know without a shadow of a doubt that if I ever get within reach of that photographer, I’ll do worse than break his nose.

Chris’s ringtone jingles in my hand. I let it ring as I jerk my skate guards on, grab my things, and head out through the double doors for the locker room. I’m not sure why I’m going there. Maybe some instinct that it’s the most likely place to be camera free. Only then do I jab the answer button.

“Talk to me, Chris.” My voice is low, unrecognizable to my own ears. “Can Phichit track down the bastard who did this? I want a name.” My limbs shake as, for the second time in less than a day, adrenaline shocks my system.

 _Slow down, Vitya. Breathe._ In my rioting brain, it’s Yuuri’s voice. I need him. _Blyat,_ I need him now.

Chris starts to answer, but my next thought launches directly out of my mouth. “Does Yuuri know?”

“Phichit reached him at his ballet class. He’s on his way to you. Wait there, okay? Don’t—”

Barreling into the relative safety of the locker room, I fling away everything in my hands, including my phone. Chris’s voice smacks against the wall and clatters to the floor. Time ceases to mean anything as I pace up and down the rows, letting the memory of Yuuri’s face in that photo fuel my anger, slamming any open locker doors with loud, satisfying _bangs_. Distantly I know I’m losing it, but there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it. In fact, for once in my life, I don’t want to do anything about it. Unleashing it feels way too good.

If there was anyone else in here, they’re long gone. I’m safe to release every demon I thought I’d locked firmly behind the smiling mask of Victor Nikiforov, international star of skating rinks, product placement, and fashion spreads.

In the same spot where Yura backed me into a corner, one locker door won’t stay closed. The harder I slam it, the harder it bounces back. I raise a skate-clad foot and kick it. Again. Again. The metal gives under the force, warping, which of course guarantees it won’t close now. My skate guard flies off. I keep kicking, the blade punching neat slits in the rickety metal.

An animal sound rips from my throat as my body begins to tire. Too soon. Not even letting me have a proper temper tantrum before failing me.

About the time the locker door falls off its hinges, someone behind me says my name. Touches my shoulder.

I whirl, slip on my guardless skate blade. My arms swing wildly for balance, the beast inside me reacting with the every fast-twitch muscle fiber in my body.

Yuuri jerks backward, narrowly avoiding an elbow to the face.

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

Seconds stretch out as we both freeze, Victor teetering on his skates, me pressed up against the row of lockers at my back.

The face he’s wearing is a stranger to me. But as I watch, heart pounding, it gradually melts away. My Victor reappears, blue eyes wide with horror, heart-curved mouth half open in shock.

As if calming a nervous animal, I push off the lockers and slowly lift a hand toward him. My Victor would reach for me in return. This Victor lurches backward, coming up hard against metal lockers. Sliding down as his knees buckle.

Whatever stress I’d been feeling over those pictures vanishes. They don’t matter now. All that matters is the man crumbling before my eyes.

“Yuuri,” he whispers. He looks down at his hands as if he’s never seen them before. Hands renowned for scribing stories in the air, sweet, sorrowful, beautiful stories. He clenches them and looks up at me. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I choke out as I ease closer, carefully stepping over the long bench between us, pushing it back so there’s room to crouch in front of him. “No, Vitya. You would never hurt me.”

I take his hands in mine, smoothing the clenched fingers out. Somewhere in another corner of the room, Victor’s phone rings. I can tell it’s Chris by the goofy, “I’m Too Sexy” ringtone. It goes to voicemail. Rings again.

As if reluctant to look me in the eye, Victor focuses on my hands and makes a distressed sound, fingertips feathering over the bruise on the back of the left one.

“Did…did I do this to you?” His voice has gone high. His face remains curiously blank, except for a single tear sliding down his face.

I lift his chin with a crooked finger, shake my head fiercely. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He rubs my hand as if trying to erase the bruise. “It is. It _is_ my fault. The allergic reaction. The paparazzi breaking into the one place I assumed we were both safe. If I’d just taken the time to _think…_ I would have known. Protected you. Now it seems,” his voice catches, “I have to protect you f-from me.”

My gut goes hollow. “Hey.” I brush at his messy hair. “Hey. No. I’m okay.” _But you’re not, Vitya. Show me how to help you._

He shakes his head, hunching a shoulder to wipe away the tear. “I…don’t…know what happened to me just now.” A confused half smile lifts a corner of his mouth, drops away.

I think I know what happened, but right now I just try to soothe him with stroking touches to his hair, his shoulders, his arms and hands. It doesn’t seem to be working. Whatever comfort I’m trying to give him seems to bounce right back off his rock-hard muscles.

That weird, borderline painful tingle returns to my palms.

There’s movement behind us, and we both look up to find Yakov, who’s somewhat disheveled from his mad dash from wherever he’d been. Reluctantly I stand up and move aside to give him room as he settles his bulk on the bench so he’s almost on a level with Victor. He leans forward, studying, shrewd eyes assessing.

As if satisfied about what he sees, he nods to himself and sits back. “Are you done, Vitya?”

I blink. What is he talking about?

Victor, responding to Yakov’s coach-voice, straightens. Sniffles a little. Lifts his chin and nods. “ _Da, ser._ ”

“Are you hurt?”

Victor shakes his head. “ _Nyet, ser_.”

Yakov settles his elbows on his knees, speaking quietly. “We are looking into how that photographer gained access. If anyone here was involved, there will be consequences. I promise you, Vitya. And you, Yuuri. It won’t happen again.”

“ _Spasibo_.” Victor’s jaw is clenched. I’m silent, a little astounded Yakov even remembered I was here.

Yakov smacks his knees with his palms, as if that is that, and rises to his feet. “All right, then. Get back on the ice.”

My jaw sags. Is he kidding? Victor just kicked the hell out of a metal locker. He could have damaged himself. He should get checked… But I shut my mouth. This is between Victor and Yakov, coach and skater.

Victor holds his hands out to me, waiting, his gaze finally meeting mine. Fire rekindles in eyes that just a moment ago were arctic-bleak. Without a word, I pull him up to stand. He straightens slowly to his full height, visibly fighting the tightness in his back.

Yakov grunts in approval and walks away. From where I’m standing, I see his coach face collapse into a man who’s aged 20 years in as many minutes.

 _Remember,_ my conscience whispers _, you vowed to keep Victor on the ice, no matter what._ Maybe Yakov made the same vow. Maybe, sometimes, helping means staying out of the way.

“You’ll need your spare skates.” I tell him. “That blade is shot.”

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

I don’t know what’s wrong with my hands.

I have to resort to wrapping Makka’s leash around my wrist several times when I bring her up from the dog sitter, because I can’t seem to close my fingers to grip it. Once inside our door, I fumble to unhook it and finally give up, letting her drag it behind her as she races across the room to see Victor.

He’s belly-down on the couch, covered in ice packs from lower back to ankles. How he can be dead asleep under what is essentially a blanket of ice, I’ll never know, but whatever works.

Makka sits at his side, tail thumping on the floor, sniffing anxiously at the ice packs. It’s as if she knows that now is not a good time to enthusiastically jump all over her papa. She licks briefly at the hand dangling off the side of the couch, then heads for her food and water bowls.

I follow, finally managing to unhook her leash, and track back to hang it by the front door. Stop for a second to examine my hands. They’re stiff, sore, and I can’t make a fist with either one. I must not have been aware how hard I was gripping the straps of my skate bag when Victor and I ran a gauntlet of paparazzi when we left the rink. 

He’d stopped for about half a minute to make a brief statement, wearing the worst imitation of his media-ready smile I’ve ever seen. _Thank you for your concern. I am perfectly fine. It was an allergic reaction to a common pain medication. Why am I taking it? Well, given my age…Yes, it’s legal. No, I am not doping. That’s enough for today._

Questions had been lobbed my way, as well, but all I could do was half-hide behind his broad shoulder and repeat, almost robotically, “N-no comment at this time, thank you.” Then we’d ducked into his car and escaped. Any probing questions about our relationship were deflected, but no one could have missed that Victor never let go of my hand. Thankfully, parking at our condo is underground and staffed with a security guard.

I flex my hands several times as I head for the kitchen to finish unpacking our grocery order—food shopping yet another ordinary task we used to enjoy unbothered in Hasetsu. I started the delivery service not long after Victor’s diagnosis, thinking to save him time and energy, both in accomplishing the task itself and dealing with an adoring public and persistent media attention. But I miss selecting fresh fruit and vegetables by smell and touch, bickering good-naturedly over ingredients, and generally just the simple pleasure of doing something so ordinary together. So normal.

 _We’ll get it back,_ I promise myself. _When this is all over and Victor is safely retired._

Victor’s phone buzzes. It’s on the floor, a few inches from his dangling fingers. It’s been buzzing off and on since our encounter in the locker room, and he’s ignored it. As if he just can’t bear any contact with the outside world right now. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet, his glacier-blue gaze turned inward, since we left the locker room. Barely even speaking to me, but touching me or gripping my hand like a lifeline at every opportunity.

He’d skated until he’d been soaked in sweat. Yakov had forced him to stop before he’d worked himself into hitting another wall of exhaustion.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I chuck the rest of the veggies in the fridge and pad over to look at his phone. Chris’s face, mouth pursed as if blowing a kiss, flashes on the screen. Looking closer, I see 28 missed calls. I suspect most of them are from Chris, as I’d already fielded a call from Yura and talked him out of cutting short his visit with his Grandfather. And texted Mari with assurances to relay to the rest of my family.

The call goes to voicemail and, after a short pause, Chris calls again. Hesitantly, I pick it up and swipe to answer it as I slip out onto the balcony, closing the door behind me.

“About fucking time, Niki.” Chris doesn’t even bother with hello.

“Chris…it’s me. Yuuri.”

A loud, dramatic sigh, heavy with relief. “ _Yuuri_. Are you okay?”

I really wish everyone—Yura, Mari, even Yakov—would stop asking me that. It was a couple of pictures. Yes, it makes me intensely uncomfortable to have my raw emotions exposed on the Internet, but it’s nothing compared to what Victor’s going through.

It was easy to wrap up the threatening anxiety attack in emotional duct tape and stuff it down as I’d grabbed my dance bag and called an Uber to take me back to the rink rather than running my usual, meandering route.

“I’m all right. Really. I’m sorry to answer Victor’s phone like this, but he’s asleep, and I’d—” I draw a breath to prepare to be assertive, “I’d like him to stay that way as long as possible. It’s been a day for him.”

“I’m aware,” says Chris. “For you, too.”

I hum a sound that could mean anything.

“I was in the middle of skyping with Phichit when he noticed the first ripples of reaction on the Internet. By the time I got hold of Victor, it was too late. Then I lost him in some kind of commotion and I’ve been trying to raise him ever since.”

He pauses, clearly waiting for me to fill in the gaps. I open my mouth and close it.

“Yuuri, what’s going on? What is Victor not telling me?”

So many secrets, piling up. I can understand Victor wanting to keep his condition private, especially when the media smells a conspiracy under every rock. Maybe he thinks he’s protecting Chris by concealing the truth. Plausible deniability, when the media starts turning those rocks over. My resolve wavers, cracks. This is _Chris._

“Victor’s ill.” I wince. So much for breaking the news gently.

Silence, then an audible swallow. “How sick is he?”

I launch into a quick-and-dirty summary of everything that’s happened up to now. Chris listens quietly, with the exception of a couple of astute questions. “The bottom line is,” I conclude, “the specialist thinks that with the right treatment, he can complete his last year of competition, fulfill his contracts with his sponsors, and retire as planned. But it hasn’t been easy. He’s operating under heavy training restrictions while training me, and now the press has smelled blood and they’re like piranhas.” I pause to gulp a breath. “It’s been wearing on him even more than I realized until today. He...lost his temper.”

“ _Victor_ lost his temper? _Our_ Victor?”

“Um, yeah? It was kind of epic.”

Chris laughs a little in disbelief. “He’s tough, Yuuri. But he’s always been good at putting up a good face. Like a graceful swan, serene on the surface, paddling like mad underneath.”

I laugh a little at that perfect analogy. Only those closest to him know how hard he works to make everything he does seem effortless.

“You sound tired, Yuuri. You must be going crazy with worry. How are you holding up?”

I wish people would stop asking me that, too. “I’m fine, Chris. I’m worried, yes… _god_ yes…but doing what I can to help him.” _Though it never feels like enough._

Chris says something that sounds, from its fervency, like it could be swearing in German. Or French. Or some mashup thereof. “You’re as bad as he is, clamming up.” He sighs. “Thanks for telling me this. Call me if you need anything? Anything at all. And…that thing we talked about yesterday?”

“We’ll figure something out. May have to put it off for a while until the media finds something else to chew on.”

“All right. When I finally talk to Victor, I won’t tell him we talked, if that’s what you want.”

“Have you _seen_ my poker face?”

He laughs. “Good point. I’ll defend you, then. I’ll tell him that in order to make you talk, I threatened to have a pole installed in your bedroom for a wedding present.”

He hangs up on my laughter. Then I pick up my own phone and call Phichit. I know he’ll forgive me, but it doesn’t erase the fact that in the few times we’ve chatted in the past couple months, I’ve basically lied to him by omission.

About the time we’re exchanging tearful goodbyes, I hear the balcony door slide open behind me. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, twist in my chair to find Victor poking his disheveled head out, sleepy eyed and wrapped in a blanket.

“Hey,” I say softly.

“Hey.” He rubs his eyes, then his gaze drops to the glass-topped table at my elbow. “Ah, there’s my phone.”

Heat creeps up my neck and across my cheeks. “Er, yes. Chris kept calling. I wanted to let you sleep, so I took pity on him and answered.”

Victor stills for a second, then nods. I shift in the love-seat-sized chair and pat the cushion beside me. He moves a few steps on sock-clad feet and settles, blanket and all, practically in my lap. His skin is still cold from the ice packs, and I tuck the blanket closer around him.

Somehow, even at an inch short of six feet, he feels incredibly small. Fragile. I make a mental note to be nosy and log into his medical records and check his weight at his last appointment. His forehead pressed to the side of my neck, he sighs, warm breath fanning across my chest in the cooling, early evening air. Even in high summer, Saint Petersburg can chill you to the bone.

That now-familiar _pulling_ sensation stirs somewhere in the center of my body, and I relax into it, letting go of whatever Victor needs to draw from me. Whatever he needs to keep fighting. He makes a noise deep in his throat that sounds something like relief.

“I don’t know how to explain what happened to me today.” 

He sounds so lost. I hug him tighter, gathering my thoughts. “I think it’s as simple...and as complicated...as the fact you’ve been bottling up a lot of anger. You can only do that for so long before the lid blows.”

I feel his head shake a little. “What have I got to be angry about? I have a great team of doctors and therapists. Access to the latest medications. People bending over backward so I can still compete. I have you. All I have to do, for the most part, is eat, sleep, and train.”

 _Good_ , I think to myself. _That’s exactly how I wanted it for you._

“I’m blessed, Yuuri,” he continues, snagging my left hand and tracing his thumb over the bruise. “What happened today isn’t who I am.”

I’m silent for a minute, trying to pull together words that’ll help him make sense of everything. “Doesn’t change the fact that life as you knew it was turned upside down. The future you had mapped out isn’t so clear anymore. You didn’t do anything wrong to deserve it, it just happened. Can you tell me truthfully that doesn’t make you angry? Sad? Even scared?”

One shoulder shrugs. “I’ve just been...putting all those feelings aside to stay focused on what’s important. Keeping you from worrying. I guess I’m afraid, if I let it get to me, you’ll get tired of all this and—”

“What, run? Oh, Vitya. No.”I resist the compulsion to squeeze him too tight.

His voice trembles. “You didn’t sign up for this, Yuuri.”

I tilt my head to the side, raise his chin so he’ll look at me. “Neither of us did, but we’re in this fight together. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not giving up on you. I love you.” I plant a light kiss on his lips, pull his right hand out of the blanket, kiss his ring, tuck it back in. “When you feel scared or angry or even just frustrated, don’t be afraid to tell me. Or Dr. Sorokina or Petrova. Or Chris. Talk to _someone,_ Vitya. Even if it’s not me.”

His body relaxes in a shuddering sigh. His glacier-blue eyes search mine. “If you’ll do the same, _da_?”

All the good feelings inside me screech to a halt, flattened by the things I know. Things that could kill my lover’s will, his hope, his formidable determination. I swallow and force myself to nod, tuck his head back under my chin where he can’t see my face. “I will. Just...don’t give up, okay?”

Victor’s fingertips stroke my shirt, over my heart, and he draws a breath like he’s about to ask me something. I close my eyes. _Don’t. Please don’t_.

Instead, he’s quiet for a minute, then, “Did you tell him?”

Relief wars with guilt. “I did. I’m sorry, Vitya, Chris needed to know.”

He sighs, weary and heartsore. “It’s all right. I was going to talk to him when…when I could.”

“And…I talked to Phichit.”

I feel his nod, his effort to snuggle tighter into my arms. Or shrink. “I shouldn’t have asked you to keep this from him. It wasn’t fair to you. Or him, for that matter. He’s your friend. He may be an Instagram whore, but he’d never betray your confidence.”

“You never specifically asked me to keep it secret. You just…seemed determined to keep your health private. Which I completely understand. Besides, Peach has already forgiven both of us.” I hug him gently, mindful of his sore places, his bruises. Silently cursing the medications that make those contusions deeper, darker. “We need all the friends we can get right now, Vitya. Chris, Phichit, and Yura are probably the closest thing we have to brothers without being blood family.”

“I’ve been thinking the same. And I want to ask you something.” His arm sneaks around my neck, and I kiss that spot on the crown of his head.

“Anything.”

He takes a shaky breath. “I want to go home.”

Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Home?” We are home. His home. In Saint Petersburg. Unless… “You mean—”

Another quick nod. “Home, Yuuri. To Hasetsu.”

* * *

**_Victor_ **

The rink is lit only with a few security lights and a bright moon shining through the wall of windows. I lean my elbows on the barrier, heavy jacket bunched up under my chin. Listening. Watching. Heart swelling with love.

Yuuri skates in and out of the shadows. Slowly. Methodically. Tracing delicate, complicated compulsory figures on the ice. Over and over. I’d hoped getting him here would bring him peace and contentment. But when he passes through a moonbeam, the weak light accentuates the smudges of fatigue and worry under his eyes.

Pulling strings to get after-hours access proved easier than prying Yuuri free of his stubborn insistence that I should rest. Even on the promise there was a surprise waiting for him, and that I felt well enough to spring it.

He isn’t wrong. I do need rest. If a body can weep from sheer fatigue and bone-deep aches, mine’s weeping now. It’s worth every twinge. Though some instinct inside me whispers he’s hiding something from me. The moment I asked to go home, I sensed him curling around it like a dragon protecting something precious. Or painful.

I don’t know what it is, but I’m absolutely sure that pushing him to talk about it will drive him deeper inside himself, out of my reach.

My phone vibrates. I answer the call. Phichit gives me a name. I thank him and hang up. Now I just have to decide what to do with it.

As soon as arrangements can be made, we’ll be going home.

I smile at that thought. Maybe, once we’re back in Hasetsu, he’ll feel safe enough to open up to me. And everything will fall into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> (from Google, all mistakes are my own)  
> Da, ser (да сэр) – Yes, sir  
> Nyet, ser (нет, сэр) – No, sir 
> 
> Note: Narcan is a medication given in an emergency to people who have overdosed on opioid drugs. Alternately, it is also used to elevate blood pressure in someone suffering septic shock.
> 
> Next time: Yuuri gives more of himself to help Victor; Victor, under pressure from the Russian Skating Federation, faces a tense press conference; and Victor and Yuuri go wheels-up for home.


	9. Chapter 9

_I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it._ _  
_ ~Maya Angelou

**CHAPTER NINE**

**_Two weeks to wheels-up._ **

**_Yuuri_ **

Morning light filters in through our north-facing windows, kitten-soft but scraping at the back of my retinas like sandpaper. I sit in the kitchen, turning my mug of tea in circles with my fingertips, contemplating yet another checklist.

_I want to go home._

It’s such a simple request, made in the fading light of sunset over the Baltic Sea, as Victor clung to me on our balcony. I’d give anything to book the next available flight, grab our passports—including Makka’s—and go. Tomorrow. But nothing’s quite that simple any more.

While Victor slept, the checklist before me morphed and grew into an ever-expanding monster.

  * _Text Mari or Mom_
  * _Text Minako_
  * _Text Yuuko and Takeshi_
  * _Discuss with Yakov - training sessions via Zoom?_
  * _Makka – take with, or sitter?_
  * _Sorokina  
o _Bloodwork?  
_ _o _Backup specialist?  
_o _Physio?_


  * _Meds  
_o _Inventory  
_o _Refills  
_o _How to keep refrigerated on plane trip_


  * _Agent  
_o _Photoshoot/sponsor activities – reschedule or relocate?_



In other words, taking Victor’s new, baggage-laden life and moving it a few thousand miles east for an indeterminate amount of time. A few weeks? A month? Right up to the start of the season?

I don’t even want to think about how someone in his condition will endure a commercial plane flight that could easily top twenty-four hours. Even if we spend the extra cash for first class—a currency figure that makes me cringe.

Not to mention the stomach-churning prospect of bringing Victor in close proximity to the wound of my past that has never fully healed. But if Victor wants to go home, I will get him there.

As the wee hours of last night had stretched toward dawn, I’d tossed back another couple slugs of vodka to quiet my brain. Not enough for a hangover, just enough to let my eyes close for a while.

Now, in the light of morning, the list doesn’t look any less complex. I stare at it now, raking fingers of one hand through my hair, twisting my cup with the other. Just looking at the list makes me tired.

Soft footfalls approach from behind me, noticeably uneven. I close my eyes briefly against the tell-tale sound of Victor’s suffering. Against the memory of that right skate—laced to that so recently injured right ankle—punching through hapless metal.

“Turn that left foot out,” I say without turning around.

“I am,” Victor answers with just a trace of a whine. He leans over me from behind and steals my cup for a sip of green tea, coughs. “This actually makes my tongue feel hairy. What did you do to it?”

“Double strength for the caffeine.” _Deflect, deflect._ “How are you feeling this morning?” _After yesterday_ hangs unsaid between us. I know what his answer is going to be, but I always ask.

“I’m fine,” he says lightly. “The ice packs helped. _You_...helped.” 

And that’s about as much as I’ll probably get out of him regarding the supernova of emotions he released yesterday. Something stubborn within me prods at that sore spot anyway. I twist in my hair and force him to meet my eyes. “How’s your pain level? Stiffness?”

He pulls a faintly grim expression. “I’d say right about what I deserve.”

 _Vitya, you don’t deserve any of this. No one does._ Giving up, I turn back to my tablet. “Your new NSAID was delivered early this morning. Hopefully that’ll help.”

He makes a sound deep in his throat that could be a Russian swear word I haven’t yet learned.

“What?”

“I said ‘yaaay’.” Out of the corner of my eye, he’s doing a one-handed, jazz-hand flutter, taking another grimace-inducing sip from my cup.

He’s so tired of this. I’m tired of it for him. And we’re only a few months into a lifetime of it.

He slips an arm around my chest and rests his chin on my shoulder, perusing my tablet. His morning stubble rasps the side of my neck. “Wow. What are we planning? Invasion of a small country?”

“You could say that.” I swipe up and down to show him. “This is the logistics of spending time in Hasetsu. Everything I can think of, anyway.”

“Oh.” He’s quiet for a moment. Small, resigned sigh. “I guess I’m not so low maintenance anymore, am I?”

I roll my eyes and take my cup back. “As if you were ever low maint— _ow_!”

He noisily kisses the spot on my neck he’s just nipped. Then he sighs quietly. “It’s too much, Yuuri. Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“Nope.” I turn my head and smack a kiss on his cheek, the awkward moment between us easing. “We’re getting out of this pressure cooker for a while. I don’t think it’ll take much convincing to get Yakov to agree.”

He reaches with a fingertip to scroll down the list. “I’ll talk to Yakov and put in a call to my agent today. Oh, and I’ll make sure Makka’s vaccinations are up to date. If—” he hesitates, “If you’re sure you want to do this.”

“I’m sure.” I reach behind me to scrub my fingertips on the back of his neck. He makes a low sound of bliss, and his skin warms. “We’ll take it a step at a time.”

He takes a breath as if to speak. Pauses. Finally, “Help me with my physio? I think I…might have overdone it yesterday.”

I flick his ear. “Ya think? I’ve seen people get bounced out of bars for less.” I’m smiling, but my heart squeezes. If he’s asking for help, last night’s rest must not have been enough to recover. The ball of anxiety in my gut winds down tighter.

Later, when I leave for my morning run to the rink, I’m chased by paparazzi. Every step of the way.

* * *

**_One week to wheels-up._ **

**_Victor_ **

I can’t shake the feeling I’m a prisoner being escorted to the gallows. Or meat about to be fed to a pack of hungry wolves. I smile a little at that thought.

The reporters, bloggers, and photographers jammed into the Belmond hotel’s largest ballroom have only ever seen Victor Nikiforov’s easy-going public face. If any one of them so much as breathes Yuuri’s name today, they could see a side they’ve never seen. The side capable of fucking someone up.

_Easy, boy. There’s going to be a top RSF official at your left elbow. Don’t think for a second he won’t throw you and your career under the bus if you step a toe off script._

Denis Oblonsky, intimidating in a black suit and Russian Skating Federation pin gleaming authoritatively on his lapel, leads the way, Yakov at my back. Maybe it’s the adrenaline surge that press conferences always give me, but I find it easy to hide my limp.

I take my seat at a table on a raised dais, loaded with so many microphones it’s a wonder it doesn’t tip over onto the mosh pit of photographers practically under our feet.

I undo the button on my charcoal gray Tom Ford suit, mainly to give my fingers something to do besides twist together or clench. A crisp white shirt and black tone-on-tone tie complete the power-suit look, the only touch of color a pocket square the same royal blue as Yuuri’s _Stammi Vicino_ duet costume.

The memory of his warm body pressed to my back as he’d helped me stretch this morning, the taste of his goodbye kiss on my lips, ground me. I breathe quietly, wishing I could still smell him on my skin.

He asked if I wanted him here today. The RSF official actually suggested it, perhaps to redirect the media’s questions to something other than the possibility the “great” Victor Nikiforov has succumbed to the lure of illegal substances in order to boost his flagging career.

I was adamant in my refusal. This isn’t Yuuri’s fight. I called Sergei—the rugby-sized jump harness spotter whose name I now know, since he doubles as our bodyguard—to pick Yuuri up and get him safely to the rink. Yuuri’s classic frown had chipped at my resolve, but I held firm. The last thing I ever want to see again is his white face last week, after the paparazzi dogged his heels on his much-needed run to the rink.

He’s substituted treadmill time, but it’s not the same. Without his daily dose of fresh air and sun (or rain) on his face, I can sense his anxiety building. All because of the sharks circling before me right now.

My smile for them is more like a baring of teeth.

Behind the cover of the floor-length cloth covering our table, Yakov’s fingers dig into the muscle just above my knee. I spare him a glance. Mindful of the hot mikes in front of us, Yakov minutely shakes his head. _Behave, Vitya._

I give him what I hope is my most innocent look. _Don’t worry, Yakov. You see before you a lamb._

He rolls his eyes and releases me.

As Oblonsky drones his way through some opening remarks (the RSF fully and unconditionally supports blah blah blah, the rumors surrounding Nikiforov’s health are blah blah, like the rest of Russia’s sports organizations, the RSF is working hard to clean up its blah blah blah), I let my gaze roam the sea of faces in the room.

A few are familiar, part of the core pack that tracks me even when I’m not the hot topic of the day. Maybe it’s my imagination, but they appear outraged on my behalf. If I’m allowed to choose, I will call on them first.

Suddenly Yakov nudges an elbow into my side. Apparently, it’s my turn to speak. I open my mouth but wind up holding up a hand against the cacophony of shouted questions and clicking camera shutters. For the first time in my career, I have to raise my voice to be heard.

“One at a time, please.” I point to one of the familiar faces. “Pavel.”

A pint-sized, bespectacled blogger for a large sports website, Pavel rises to his full five-foot-single-digit height. “Good morning, Mr. Nikiforov. Thank you for speaking with us today.” I see more than a few eye rolls among the throng. I nod to encourage him to go on. “Will you be so kind as to describe what happened last week and,” his angry gaze darts around the room, “lay the rumors to rest?”

“Of course, Pavel.”

Oblonsky shifts noisily in his chair, impatient with the niceties. I grit my teeth and continue.

“As you all know, I am going into my last year of competition, and recently suffered a severely sprained ankle in practice. It turns out the NSAID I was taking—” I pause minutely to let the reporters write it down, “contains a common ingredient to which I am allergic. Quite dramatically, as everyone saw.” There’s a bite of acid in that last bit. Yakov shifts in his chair, ominous creak speaking for him. _Down, boy._

“NSAID?”

“A prescription medication for pain and inflammation, which is very common among athletes of my age.” My self-deprecating smile hangs on by a thread.

“What ingredient?”

For once my memory is crystal clear on this one. “It’s called ‘sulfa’, found in many medications, such as antibiotics.” A few heads in the room nod. _That’s it, Nikiforov. Be nice. Be relatable._ “I went into what is called anaphylactic shock, which was an emergency situation. I am very lucky one of my teammates had an epinephrine pen on hand.”

“So, that photo of you getting an injection was…”

“My teammate saving my life with an epi pen, _not_ , as was rumored, an opioid antagonist.” I love it when word salad works to my advantage. At least half the room looks confused, the other half bends heads over their phones to look it up.

“Would you mind giving us her—”

“Yes, I do mind.” My narrowed eyes and vocal tone send Pavel backward into his seat. Oblonsky shifts again, and I take the cue to point to another familiar reporter. “Nikolai.”

I miss his question, because out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a face. It’s half-hidden behind a camera, not ten feet away from me. It hadn’t taken much digging on the Internet to attach that face to the name Phichit gave me last week.

The part I can see wears a half smirk. The one revealed eye is mocking. The empty soul of a man who destroys peace for profit.

Fury tenses every muscle in my body, rivets my gaze on him. He’s holding his finger down on the shutter button, snapping a continuous stream of my direct, icy stare. Only Yakov’s brutal grip on my knee reminds me to stay the fuck in my chair. Almost two decades at his side, he knows my every blink and twitch.

_This is not the place, Vitya._

I manage to breathe around my rage, I drag my attention back to Nikolai. My smile is gone. I don’t bother to go looking for it. “My apologies. What was the question?” Yakov lets me go.

Nikolai’s earnest expression reminds me why I’m here, and that not every face in front of me is a predator.

It’s some softball question about my training, which I answer with assurances I’ll be ready well in time for the GPF series. Ignoring the fact I haven’t launched a jump without a harness assist in over two months.

Hands raise, arms wave. I pick one at random.

“Your protégé, Katsuki Yuuri, was clearly distressed when…”

“Next question,” I snap. Oblonsky clears his throat, clearly disapproving. I ignore him.

“But how is your relationship conducive to—”

I bristle and open my mouth.

To my surprise, Yakov leans into the microphones. “Katsuki Yuuri is a professional, as is Victor. One thing you might not realize, skaters at this level thrive on competition. They want other competitors to bring nothing but their best. Victor knows what he’s doing. After all, he learned at my knee.”

Another voice pipes up. “But last year you said, and I quote, ‘he’ll never be anyone’s coach’.”

As if watching a tennis match, all heads swing back to Yakov. Including mine—I’m interested to hear how he gets out of this one, as well. He gives me an annoyed side eye, then leans in again. “I was wrong. Katsuki Yuuri’s medals speak for themselves.”

There’s no time to savor the warmth filling my chest. The free-for-all has begun, questions tumbling over each other, too fast to answer.

_“What exactly is your relationship with Katsuki Yuuri?”_

_“Are you living together?”_

_“Can you produce documented proof the medications you’re taking aren’t performance enhancing?”_

_“What is your comment on the needle marks shown in enhanced photos?”_

_“If all you suffered is a sprained ankle, why are you visiting Leningrad General every few weeks?”_

Something inside me goes cold at that last one. _None of your fucking business_ is on the tip of my tongue when Oblonsky half rises to his feet.

“One at a time, please. One at a—” He frowns at me like it’s my fault the press conference has spiraled out of control. I turn to Yakov, who’s settled back in his chair as if his work here is done. Our eyes meet, and he jerks his chin toward the exit.

I turn back to Oblonsky, inclining my head respectfully. “Thank you for your support. We’re done here.”

His mouth opens and shuts like a fish as Yakov and I get up and leave the room. Anger and disgust churns in my gut, but it’s tempered with the words Yakov spoke in front of the whole world. Words any child would long to hear from a father.

Happiness straightens my spine and throws my shoulders back, lengthens my gimpy step into my normal, exuberant strides as we leave the hotel and slide into the taxi I’d paid to wait for a quick exit.

The car door no sooner shuts behind us when Yakov settles into his seat and back into his grumpy coach demeanor. I lean toward him, urgent. “Yakov, the photographer who took those pictures—”

Yakov straightens his sport coat, unconcerned. “I saw him, yes, Vitya. We are well aware of him.”

I draw back. “‘We’? Who’s ‘we’?”

He gives me a look and goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “With the increase in security, he will not get back into the rink. Or physically near you or Yuuri outside it, if Sergei does his job. But that’s not important right now.”

I blink. “It isn’t?”

“I have news from Dr. Sorokina. I only received it right before this sham of a press conference. She thought you’d like to hear it from me.”

My pulse picks up, hoping, praying her message is what I think it is. “Yes?”

He turns to me and gives me something I don’t think I’ve ever seen on his face. A warm smile. On a face as craggy as the Ural Mountains, it’s a little…scary.

“You’ve been cleared to fly.”

I gasp and open my mouth, but he stops me with an upraised palm, a face that drops back into its comfortable scowl. “ _Carefully._ A limited number of attempts to start, building slowly. You _will_ be truthful when I ask how each jump feels, and you _will_ stop or go back in the harness if it’s too much. You are not out of the woods yet, Vitya.”

I know he’ll hate it, but I throw myself at him and hug him. “Thank you, Yakov. Thank you,” I whisper.

He pats me awkwardly and pushes me back with an irritated grunt. “When did you say you’re headed for Japan?”

The memory of Yuuri hunched over his checklists checks my buoyant mood. “Soon. We’re looking for a flight that will cause the least stress on Makka.”

“Mm. Have Yuuri sit down with me and go over how this teleconferencing thing works before you go.” Yakov clasps his hands in his lap, stares out the taxi window. “You know…you could leave Makka with me, if you need to.”

Huh. So many new sides of Yakov, exposed in one day. I’m not sure my heart can take it. “She adores her regular sitter. She’ll be well taken care of, whatever happens. But thank you.”

He clears his throat and nods. “You did well today. You’ve…come a long way from the wide-eyed little boy with flowers in his hair.” Then he flips a hand as if flicking the sentimental moment away. “Anyway. When you get back on the ice, be ready to work.”

Like I said—not a hand holder. But, it occurs to me, he’s always been the wind at my back.

* * *

Yuuri should be on the ice, but as I slip my guards off and start my warm-up, I don’t see him right away. Then I spot him in a far corner, hunched over the boards with his back to the rink. His phone is pressed to one ear, his free hand making short, sharp gestures as if he’s emphatically telling someone _no_. His low-pitched conversation becomes clearer as I skate to his side and settle in next to him, stretching.

He glances up, startled, eyes wide, but he doesn’t stop talking.

“No, Chris. We can’t accept…it’s too much.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Chris?”

“ _Put your speaker on,”_ Chris’s voice insists from the tinny phone speaker.

“No,” Yuuri pushes back. “We’re in the rink right now.”

“ _Pour l’amour di Dieu! Give Victor the phone. I can hear he’s there.”_

Yuuri, flushed with exasperation, shoves the phone at me. “Here. Talk some sense into this crazy Swiss roll.”

He starts to push off the boards, but I grab his wrist and keep him close. His wrinkled nose says _what?_ I shake my head and mouth _wait_ , holding the phone so we can both hear it.

“I’m here, Chris.”

“Tell your little Pekingese to stand the fuck down for two minutes.”

“Pekingese are _Chinese!_ ” Yuuri sputters. Then, muttering under his breath, “And they’re extremely vicious.”

 _He’s fucking with you,_ I mouth at him. He rolls his eyes, _I know._

“At least he’s cuter than a Shar Pei,” Chris goes on. “ _Any_ way, I have a proposition for both of you.”

Yuuri sputters again, but I hold his gaze with mine. “I’m listening.”

“Yuuri told me you’re both going home for a bit. I want you to use my private plane.”

I blink. “Chris…”

“It’s not for you,” he sniffs. “It’s for Makkachin. I can’t bear the thought of my sweet old girl riding in some dark, dirty cargo hold.”

“It’s not—”

“In exchange,” he goes on as if I’m air. “I’d like you and Yuuri to join me in filming a flight safety video to be shown on all our flights. At some point in the future. Not right now.”

It’s not well known that the reason Chris arrives at competition venues rested, relaxed, and ready to party is because his family owns a majority share in one of Europe’s largest private jet fleets. Which means he has a Learjet at his disposal.

“Besides,” he mumbles rapidly, as if hoping the footnote will go unnoticed. “I need the flight hours.”

Yuuri’s eyes go huge.

“You’re…a pilot?”

Another theatrical sigh. “I’ll need something to do once I’m retired from flinging this booty across the ice. The only thing women—and men—find sexier than an Olympic medalist is a pilot. Help a guy out, Niki.”

I hold Yuuri’s gaze. We’re both going a little misty. Yuuri rolls his wet eyes in surrender and nods.

“Chris, we accept. Thank you.” It’s all I can manage without choking up.

“Good.” He says, satisfied that we’ve seen things his way. “Let me know when you want to go wheels up.”

I hang up and hand Yuuri’s phone back to him.

“I have some other news, _moya iskra_.”

“What is it?” He plugs his earbuds into his phone.

I take both his hands, phone and all, in mine. “The plane isn’t the only thing that’s going to be flying.”

A slow smile dawns on his face, temporarily chasing away the shadows. Then he throws both arms around me. “I’m so glad, Vitya,” he whispers.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I murmur in his ear, and his arms tighten. I hold him close for a moment, uncaring we’re in full view of everyone in the rink.

Yuuri pulls back with a cleansing breath and presses his phone into my hand, reaches up to stick the buds into my ears. “My short program is finished. Start the music once I’m in position, and I'll do my best to hook all the sections together.” Despite the fatigue smudging under his eyes, a hint of that sparkle is back.

For the next two minutes and forty-five seconds, all other activity ceases and no one can look away as Yuuri skates with a joy that’s been missing since the day my twisted ankle changed everything.

Even though he can’t hear the music, he skates in near-perfect synchronization with the new composition flowing into my ears. It’s still rough in spots, but I know without looking at the title, just by watching the way his body moves, it’s about our first summer in Hasetsu.

* * *

**_Wheels-up._ **

**_Victor_ **

I believe I’ve found the key to getting Yuuri to sleep. Sit him straight up in an airplane seat.

No sooner than the Learjet was airborne and eastbound away from the late afternoon sun, I glanced up from wiggling my fingers between the wires of Makkachin’s crate to find Yuuri’s eyelids drooping, his head sagging to one side.

Right before Chris had departed to deadhead on another fleet jet headed back to Geneva, he'd taken me aside and leaned close to my ear. _“He looks terrible, Niki. Are you sure he’s not the sick one?”_

My heart sinks. I know Yuuri looks tired, but it took fresh eyes to make me realize just how drained he is.

Over the past week we’ve both been working through Yuuri’s dizzying checklist to prepare for the journey. But Yuuri—as is his way—took on the bulk of the planning and execution while I’d thrown myself back into training. We’d argued about it. He’d held mulishly firm.

I sigh quietly, reach over to touch a lock of his soft, black hair.

It hasn’t been easy, hiding from him just how high my pain level has spiked since I started jumping again. It's not as if landing a triple axel has ever been pain free, but now each impact jolts through every joint like a hammer. Yuuri's sharp gaze rarely misses anything, but his schedule kept him away from most of the extra sessions I’ve squeezed in with Yakov. My coach says I’m pushing too hard, which is another first, and enforces a per-session limit of five attempts landing on the left blade, five on the right.

Until this morning, when I needed more repetitions to work up to a to a quad toe loop.

I grimace. Yuuri will find out soon enough how well that went. It’s not as if I can suddenly start hiding in a closet to undress. Not when he’s finally gotten used to my hanging around the apartment naked without suffering chronic blushing syndrome. And I can’t exactly start insisting on making love with clothes on.

Despite the pain of returning to my full training regimen, the lifting of restrictions has relit a fire in my belly and rekindled my sex drive. Not that the passion ever died, but despite the fact Yuuri’s never said a word nor failed to give me nothing but tenderness and pleasure, I’ve been feeling like less than an equal partner.

At night, I want him. I also want him to rest, but goodnight kisses invariably lead to something more, and end with Yuuri’s hot hands instinctively resting on my worst pains as we fall asleep. Or, at least, I do. Invariably I wake up sometime in the night to an empty bed, the glow of the living area lights flickering under the bedroom door as he paces.

Only once did I get up to try to bring him back to bed. He’d fussed at me for messing up his carefully constructed pillow nest, spent ten minutes rearranging me to his satisfaction, then quietly closed the door behind him, promising to join me after he’s “taken care of a couple of things.”

Those “couple things” being more pacing, or slipping away for another hour on the downstairs treadmill. More than once, I’ve heard the refrigerator door open and shut, but it's not food he's been bingeing on.

While cleaning out leftovers in preparation for the time away, I noticed the vodka bottle. If I remember rightly, it’d been about three-quarters full the last time Chris departed from spending a long weekend. There’s maybe a swallow or two left. 

My first instinct had been to wave the bottle in Yuuri’s face and demand answers. I didn’t. I put the bottle back, resolving to keep quiet and watchful, waiting for the right time to bring it up. To ask him what kind of pain takes 100-proof alcohol to quell.

Sophia, our flight attendant, opens the door leading to the crew cabin and pokes her head in. Responding to the finger I raise to my lips, she whispers in French-accented Russian, “We’re at cruising altitude, Mr. Nikiforov. You’re free to move about the cabin. Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, thank you, Sophia.” We share a conspiratorial smile over Yuuri’s sleeping form. “Looks like it’s nap time. We’ll buzz if we need anything.”

“I’ll hold your supper until you’re ready. Don’t forget, there’s a bedroom in the aft part of the plane. Please feel free to use it if you’d be more comfortable.” She shuts the door with a quiet _snick_.

I shift in the ridiculously cushy seat, looking for a position that doesn’t aggravate the bruises on my hips. Then my elbows and shoulder. I look at Yuuri, who hasn’t woken up to recline his seat, so he’s down in a spine-torturing scrunch, one arm flopped over the armrest.

I pick up his hand and squeeze it gently. “Yuuri, wake up. Let’s move to the back and lie down.”

He jerks awake and pushes himself upright. “No…no. I’m okay.” He shoves fingertips under his glasses to rub his eyes.

Unhooking my seat belt, I get up and tug on his hand. “Come on. We’re both dead. There’s a perfectly good bed back there.”

He blinks up at me, fully awake now, and flushes bright red. “There’s…people on the plane.”

I lean down, caging him in with my hands on his armrests, and touch my forehead on his, smiling. “They…don’t care.”

His eyes shift to the crew cabin door. “It’s…Chris’s bed.”

I let my voice lower to a purr. “Are you…imagining what kind of debauchery has occurred back there?”

More blushes. “No!”

My smile widens in delight. “You _are._ ” I unbuckle his seat belt and pull him up, tugging him after me toward the back of the plane. “Come on, Yuuri. It’s just a bed. We’re tired. We have a long flight ahead of us, we should rest while we can.”

“What about Makka?” He tries one last time.

“She’s napping. In comfort. Like you should be.”

“All right, all _right,_ ” he groans, dragging his feet. But not too hard.

I nudge him through the bedroom door, shut it behind us, and look around the room for the first time. “ _Yebena mat'_.”

“No kidding.” Yuuri says faintly, turning a slow circle. “Not exactly what I was expecting.”

I’m not sure what I expected. Well, that’s a lie. I pictured orgy-purple satin sheets. A mirror on the ceiling. Handcuffs. A sex swing. Anything but what we’re looking at.

A normal, queen-sized bed, thick duvet, piles of pillows of all shapes and sizes, all covered in cool white-and-blue, gazillion-thread-count cotton.

And stuffed animals. Mostly fluffy cats.

We collapse in giggles, leaning on each other to hold each other up. Yuuri’s hand lands on the side of my hip, and before I can stop myself, I flinch.

His laughter dies. He says nothing, just stares up into my eyes until I’m the first to look away. With a sad kind of sigh, he unties the lightweight jacket from around my waist and tosses it on the bed. Slides his hands under my thin cardigan and lifts it off my shoulders, watching my face as his palms brush my upper arms and elbows over my black, long-sleeve base layer.

I try not to react to his touch, but betray myself by holding my breath. I give up, pulling the last layer off over my head as he unbuttons and undoes the zip on my skinny pants. The plane shifts under our feet and Yuuri catches my balance, sitting me down on the bed to finish undressing me.

In deference to the blue-black bruises on my hips, I’d opted out of underwear. I look down and wince. The contusions have spread from the point of impact to cover the side of my hip, thigh, spreading around to my upper back. An inky map of pain.

Yuuri hisses a breath through his teeth, hands hovering over the blotches as if afraid to touch them. He sits back on his heels, then pushes to his feet. “Be right back.”

He doesn’t just sound weary. He sounds defeated.

I bury my face in my hands as he closes the bedroom door behind him. _You stupid shit. It takes so little to make Yuuri happy. All you would have had to do was ask his help._

Yuuri returns, carrying a small jar of the mystery salve he uses on sore joints and bruises, and a fluffy towel he’s grabbed from the tiny bathroom. Still silent, he arranges me face-down on the towel and proceeds to dab salve on my skin. I pull a pillow from the piles and cross my arms under it, propping my head on top.

“These look bad.”

“The meds make them look worse than they are.”

“I know, but…” he sighs and reaches across to treat the other side. His fingers are gentle, but I fight not to squirm away from the discomfort. “How many falls?”

“Four times this morning. Three of those working on a reverse quad toe.”

He tilts his head. “For not having jumped free in over two months, that actually doesn’t suck.” He pauses, pressing his lips together. Then, because he clearly can’t help it, “Did you land it?”

I can’t hold back a smile at his inability _not_ to talk shop. “On the last attempt.”

“My guess is you weren’t going to leave there until you did.” Despite his disappointment in my not coming to him with all my hurts, there’s a hint of pride in his voice. And maybe a bare edge of competitive spirit.

His fingertips tingle on my skin as he shifts to my shoulder, dabbing more salve there. Then my elbows, and finally treating my battered feet to a groan-inducing massage. It’s like his hands are emitting little sun darts that warm the pain away. Finished, he caps the jar and puts it aside, then sits cross-legged beside me, simply running his hand up and down my back. Petting. Soothing.

When he props his head on his free hand, as if too tired to hold it up any more, I shift to my side, ignoring the soreness, and pull him down into my arms. “I should have said something.”

His arms are crossed over his chest, not quite ready to forgive, but he doesn’t fight my hold. “Yes, you should have. I could have treated these before we left for the airport.”

I get a hand in his soft hair and use it to gently make him look at me. “I’ll make you a promise. The next time I feel the urge to hold back from you, to spare you? I won’t. If you promise to do the same for me.”

His gaze slides sideways and he shifts.

Irritation flares in my chest. “I’m not a fool, Yuuri. Something’s bothering you. Deeply.”

“I’m just…worried, that’s all.” His body is so tight, I’m positive if I plucked him he’d resonate like a cello string.

“I know I can be slow on the uptake. But this goes beyond worry." I try to make him meet and hold my gaze. "Look, Yuuri, I’m doing better. The meds are working. We’re managing this thing, together. We're past the worst of it. There’s nothing to wor—”

Yuuri’s mouth cuts off the rest of whatever I’d been about to say, crashing into mine with a hard, teeth-nipping-lips kiss. His arms unwind and he grasps the sides of my head, as if he thinks I’d do something so stupid as to pull away.

I know exactly what he’s doing. Two can play this game. I break the kiss just long enough to remove his glasses and lean across him to slide them into a bedside drawer, where they won’t hit the floor if we hit any turbulence. His lips follow me, trailing down my chest. My fingers brush something, and I come up with a small packet of lube.

Silently blessing Chris, I settle back at Yuuri’s side, and he renews his attack on my mouth. A sensual assault I can sense is fueled by anxiety. No sense in reminding him to breathe; he’s beyond that now. Out of control, zero-to-ninety in a heartbeat.

“What do you need?” I whisper against his lips. “Tell me what you need.”

He sits up and pulls frantically at his clothes, and I help him strip. Naked, he yanks at the duvet and I oblige, burrowing with him under its warmth. Cocooned away from the harsh world in soft, grey darkness.

“What do you need?” I repeat, cupping his face in my hands, anchoring him, forcing him to look at me.

With a moan, he twists away, spooning his ass into my throbbing groin. “You. Safe inside me.”

The tiny part of my brain that isn’t screaming get-inside-him-now snags on _safe._

By the time I finish preparing him, we’re both coated in a fine mist of sweat, and he’s making small sounds he’s clearly trying to keep from escalating into howls. I hook an arm under his free leg and guide myself to his entrance.

He arches backward, hard, forcing me inside him halfway to the hilt.

I gasp, grabbing his hips to hold him steady. “Too fast. Too... Take it—”

“ _Now_.”

It’s like tug-of-war in reverse, a wrestling match I’m destined to lose, because I’ve never been able to resist his need. Or the feel of his body clasping my cock. Finally, I’m fully seated inside him, rocking gently as he curls into himself, pulls my arms around him and closing his eyes. As he slips one hot hand back to rest on my bruised skin, his frenzied pants slow to deep, shuddering breaths.

I nuzzle his hair aside and whisper into his ear. “Tell me what’s wrong, Yuuri.”

A small shake of his head. “Nothing. Nothing…just…” He guides one of my hands down to take his cock. “Hold me. Just wanna stay like this…for as long as…”

I pull him close, sheltering him, stroking him slowly, languidly, inside and out. “As long as you need.”

He twists his head toward me, eyes anguished and searching. “Are you…”

“I said, as long as you need, _moya lyubov_.”

He relaxes at last into the unhurried rhythm of our rocking bodies. Our climaxes, when they come, are tidal. Slow, inexorably rising to a silent peak…and wet with Yuuri’s salty tears. Tears he tries to hide by turning his face into the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: (via Google, mistakes are my own)  
> Pour l’amour di Dieu – For God’s sake/for the love of God  
> Yebena mat' (Ебена мать) – Holy shit
> 
> Notes:  
> Autoimmune diseases like ankylosing spondylitis, rheumatoid arthritis, lupus, etc. sneak into every aspect of life, including sexual. Not only can pain and fatigue affect sex drive, it can limit the activities patients used to enjoy. This can throw yet another monkey wrench into even the healthiest and happiest of relationships, both with the patient who’s in pain, and the partner (or partners) who doesn’t want to inflict any more. Unfortunately, the divorce rate among autoimmune-affected couples is high, and the massive change in sex life is often the straw that breaks the camel’s back. But, if approached with openness, love, and a big dollop of humor, sex can still be passionate and fun. (Let’s face it, sometimes sex can be stupid funny.)
> 
> I’m aware that there are laws regarding quarantine of pets entering Japan. For the purposes of this fic, I’ve pretty much ignored and/or bent the hell out of them. (Kubo-sensei did pretty much the same thing, so I feel comfortable following that example.)
> 
> Finally, thanks to my betas, netsirhc and Melissa Combs, for solving the mystery of the disappearing and reappearing tea cup. (Continuity is a bitch!)
> 
> Note about publishing schedule: My betas have caught up with me, and also, the next few chapters will cut very close to the bone for me emotionally, so they may take a little longer for me to craft. Therefore I may not post every single Thursday, but I PROMISE not to leave you hanging for weeks or months at a time. Thank you for your patience and for hanging in with this story! Over 1000 hits! Wow! I don't know what to say except thank you.
> 
> Next time: Victor and Yuuri return to Hasetsu, where Victor begins to decompress - but Yuuri begins to crack.


	10. Chapter 10

“ _Anxiety is a thin stream of fear trickling through the mind. If encouraged, it cuts a channel into which all other thoughts are drained_ .”  
~Arthur Somers Roche

CHAPTER TEN

**_Yuuri_ **

As we emerge from Fukuoka airport, squinting against southern Japan’s hot summer sun, we’re a study in contrasts: Makka prancing on the end of her leash, Victor’s model-fluid stride shortened despite the comforts of Chris’s Learjet and my efforts to take care of him, and me? Shuffling like a zombie, head down, face masked—and trying to ignore the giant posters of home-town champion Katsuki Yuuri plastered on every wall.

Bringing Victor back to Hasetsu was a big, big mistake.

I’d come too close…scraped-to-the-bone close…to spilling everything to Victor as he’d held me, touched me, loved me back from the edge of an anxiety attack that could have ruined everything. _Everything._ I have to be stronger, stay focused on him and what he needs. I can’t risk losing my grip and losing him down the holes even I hadn’t realized are still gaping in my heart.

 _You’re focused on the wrong things, Yuuri._ I’m not sure why Celestino’s old critique is the loudest in my head right now, but I stuff a mental sock in it. I’m on this train now, and I can’t think of any way off that won’t cause irreparable damage.

I have to do whatever it takes to keep Victor on the ice. And out of my past. That’s it.

How I’m going to do it, here where it all happened, with the people who witnessed it, I have yet to figure out. I will my hands not to shake as I mutter over fitting our luggage like puzzle pieces into the back of Mari’s car.

“Yuuri, let me—”

I shoo Mari away. “I’ve got this. Can you help Victor get situated? The front seat would be best. Push it all the way back. I’ll sit behind you with Makka.”

She huffs out an irritated breath and I can practically feel the exact moment her gaze connects with Victor’s behind my back. She skirts around me and strides toward him in A Very Purposeful Way.

Well, hell. In all my planning, I’d failed to factor in the Mari Effect.

Their voices are subdued as Mari bundles Victor into the front passenger seat, adjusting it for his long legs. They probably think I can’t hear them. Or they just don’t care.

“He looks…” Mari mutters.

Victor sighs. “I know.”

“And you’re supposed to be the sick one. It’s like he hasn’t slept for days.”

“He hasn’t. Or, barely, that I’ve noticed.”

Mari’s voice drops so low I almost don’t hear it. “He didn’t take his pill?”

 _Dammit, Mari._ I yank all the luggage out and start over, making as much noise as possible. To no avail.

Victor’s pause is too long. “What pill?”

“The one he uses on long flights to chill out and sleep. It’s not strong, just takes the edge off his anxiety on those long, international hauls. You didn’t know?”

Another sigh from Victor, this one accompanied with a frustrated groan.

“You didn’t.” Mari sounds annoyed. “Well, isn’t that typical.”

I slam the lid of the boot down. “I’m right here, you know.”

Having tucked Victor in the car, Mari sails past me on her way to the driver’s side, stopping just long enough to jerk me into an awkward side hug.

“Mari, what the…” I react like I’ve been hit with a bucket of ice water. What’s with the casual public display of sisterly affection? I glance around the crowded pick-up area, my face hot and, I’m sure, beet red. I catch a few embarrassed smiles as heads quickly turn away. Lovely.

“Just being a good big sister and telling your boyfriend what an idiot you are,” she says, jingling her keys. “Get in. Ka-san can’t wait to see you.”

Victor is looking at me through the back window, protective face mask pulled off, his blue eyes huge and distressed. Double lovely. My stomach flips over. Victor knew from day one that I was a mess. Now he’s learning just how much of a mess I really am.

As I squeeze into the back seat with Makka and one of the smaller suitcases taking up most of the space, he resolutely faces forward, giving me a view of the back of his travel-messy silver head. But not before I get a glimpse of his face before he turns away. It features a granite-set jaw and a glint in his eye that tells me he’s about to get very, very stubborn.

I let my head fall back on the seat and close my eyes.

* * *

**_Victor_ **

The entire drive back to Hasetsu, I can’t help stealing glances at Yuuri though the little mirror on the car’s sun visor. I know exactly why he hasn’t taken off his face mask, hasn’t opened his eyes since Mari pulled away from the pick-up lane at the airport.

He’s being stubborn. And I, for one, have had enough.

Over the course of the past few days—and especially during this flight—it’s become painfully clear how habitual it’s become for Yuuri to sacrifice his comfort, his sleep, his stamina for me. What does it say about me that I let him do everything—feed me, medicate me, exercise me? Let the equal partnership we fought for become so one-sided? If he were ill, I’d do the same for him without hesitation, but…

Starting now, I decide, this bullshit is going to stop. Now that we’re back in Hasetsu, I’ll have allies to help me convince Yuuri to let up. Yuuri’s doting family.

The silence between us is a dark, ever-growing knot as we walk—trudge—through the door of Yu-topia Katsuki. But one step inside, and something inside me loosens. The scents of hot mineral springs, clean linens, and comfort food envelope my senses. I’ve never had this feeling anyplace else, not even Saint Petersburg.

Very appropriately, Yuuri is Hiroko and Toshiya’s first target. I stand back, throat a little tight as I wait my turn, only to wind up laughing out loud at Yuuri’s expression when he’s trapped in his parents’ tandem hug. Mari, beside me, stifles her giggle behind her hand.

My laughter fades at the change in his parents’ expressions behind Yuuri’s back. The concern. The worry. The knowledge that something is very, very wrong. They both look at me, and I try to tell them without words, _I know. Help me fix this._

This must be what it feels like to have real parents. A hollow corner of my heart hurts, just a little. Not so much for me, for the little boy who grew up too fast, but for all of us. All of us who’ve had our hearts stolen by the black-haired boy who lives to skate.

Their faces brighten again as they release him and stand back, smiling into Yuuri’s stunned expression. He’s never been one to willingly engage in PDA—witness his near terror when I’d ambushed him at the Cup of China last year—and he’s reacting like a cat that just got hit with a squirt gun. All fur-standing-on-end and sputtering indignance.

His confusion only grows when his father playfully boops him on the nose.

Toshiya bustles over to me, clearly waffling between bowing, shaking my hand, or throwing all custom to the wind and hugging me. I make the decision for him by opening my arms. His English isn’t the best, but the force of his embrace says everything.

He pulls back, pats me on both shoulders—gently—dark eyes twinkling above his smile. “Sake? Later?”

I laugh, hold up a thumb and forefinger a short width apart. “ _Sukoshidake, onegaishimasu. Gomen_.” I search for a word, can’t find it in Japanese. “Medication.”

“Ah.” His smile softens. “Only a little, then. Celebrate. You…okay?”

I smile softly. “I am, now that I’m home.”

His eyes shimmer. The breath in my own chest catches.

“ _Hai_ ,” he says softly. “You are home.”

Hiroko is stepping back from a slightly traumatized Yuuri, just in time to greet my own _probably_ overenthusiastic hugs and kisses to both her cheeks. She laughs and hustles us toward the family dining nook off the kitchen. “Katsudon,” she promises.

Later, as we’re scraping our bowls clean—Yuuri moaning in porn-movie ecstasy—Mari reappears, lounging against the doorjamb, chewing ferociously on what looks like a three-piece wad of gum. I raise an eyebrow at her, tapping a speculative finger at the corner of my mouth.

She scowls. “Yes, Vic-chan, I’m trying to quit.”

I smile. Yuuri’s food- and jet-lagged-sleepy eyes widen, then his face falls.

“You should have told me, Mari-neechan,” he groans, and it’s not over dramatic teasing. “I’d have packed my asbestos jinbei.”

Mari looks like she’d like to flip her brother the bird, but turns it into an ear scratch when Hiroko sweeps in to collect our empty dishes.

I lean back on my hands, twisting a little to stretch my back, enjoying their byplay. And my full belly. Something I’ll have to temporarily give up if I’m to compete soon.

“I take it this isn’t the first time Mari-chan has tried to quit smoking?”

Mari snorts. “Third time's a charm, right?”

Yuuri whimpers into crossed arms on the table.

“Oh, come on, nii-chan,” she chides. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Last time,” he muffles, “I was this close to stuffing a cigarette in your mouth and lighting it myself.”

He sits up as Hiroko laughs and heads for the kitchen, arms loaded with bowls. “Would prefer she did not smoke,” she says in her improving English, “but smoking Mari not scare away customers.” She turns just before she disappears through the swinging doors, saying something to Mari in quick Japanese, brow raised.

Mari nods. “Hai, ka-san. Get your stuff and let’s go, boys.”

I squawk in surprise when Yuuri and Mari swoop in, grab me under my armpits, and lift me to my feet. No fanfare, no fuss. Just something families do. Secretly, I’m grateful. Much as I love lounging on tatami floor cushions, getting up from such a low table isn’t as easy as it used to be.

Yura would probably laugh and cough _starik_ behind his hand.

Yuuri slings on his backpack and rolls both our carry-on bags behind him, Mari pulls the bigger suitcase. I’m left to trail along behind, empty handed, Makka close on my heels. Another reason I’d like to give Chris a wet, sloppy kiss is that thanks to his generosity, my aging poodle didn’t have to ride cargo. She’s spry, and an experienced traveler, but reaching the point where leaving her behind is a real possibility. A thought I quickly push away.

We come to the old banquet room where I’d been lodged the last time I stayed at Yu-Topia Katsuki, but Mari keeps going past its firmly shut door, to which a new “Private” sign is attached. We march on toward Yuuri’s room, which is tucked away in a far corner of the building in deference to Yuuri’s periodic need to calm his anxiety.

Yuuri glances over his shoulder at me. I raise my eyebrows in question. He shrugs in response, cheeks flushing.

I grin back. He mouths _shut up_ and soldiers on after his sister.

Last year, after the family celebration of his win in the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship, which had run into the wee hours, I’d opened my banquet/bedroom door to find Yuuri, hand raised as if to knock. I’d grabbed that hand and pulled him inside before he’d had time to overthink it and change his mind.

High on the win and the amount of alcohol that flowed that night, we made out like teenagers. A snogging, frottaging, feeling-up fest that’d ended with Yuuri passed out in my arms and me so happy to have him there, I’d slept in my come-sticky underwear rather than lose his heat.

The color of the back of Yuuri’s neck tells me he remembers, too.

Which makes me ridiculously happy, because I’ve never quite gotten over the heartbreak that he doesn’t remember the first time we danced.

Mari throws open Yuuri’s bedroom door and hauls the suitcase in, then stands back with a half-smile.

Yuuri steps in cautiously and gasps, dropping both suitcases. Curious, I crowd in behind him.

His single bed is gone. The remaining furniture’s been rearranged to accommodate a decidedly non-traditional queen-sized bed, which now dominates most of the floor space. I’m absolutely certain that squeezing its bulk through the narrow door must have involved a lot of sweating and swearing.

My gaze travels up to take in a newly installed ceiling fan. I grin in delight, and Mari gives me one of her rare, wall-to-wall smiles.

“Nee-chan…” Yuuri says softly, grasping a handful of his t-shirt over his heart. “This is…nice. Thank you.”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “We figure it’s better than you guys wearing a trench in the floor between your rooms.”

Yuuri blushes so red I wonder affectionately how he has enough blood left for his brain. “But where…where did you get the money?”

There’s so much guilt loaded in that voice, I frown, move to his side and put my arm around his hunched shoulders. Why isn’t my Yuuri smiling? Happy?

Mari’s voice gentles. “After the big season you had, and with the excitement over the upcoming Olympics, tourism in Hasetsu is up. Minako’s studio is full, Ice Castle is busier than ever. We’ve got more customers, and with your new sponsors picking up the slack, we’ve had the money to hire more help. Make some improvements around here.” She plants a light, sisterly punch on his upper arm. “We’re okay. Don’t worry so much.”

Instead of reassuring him, Yuuri grows even more tense before he shifts away from my hold. Leaving me standing there, unsure what to do with my arms, wanting nothing more than to comfort away whatever’s bothering him.

Mari shoves the big suitcase into a corner, and motions us to follow her back into the corridor. “This way. The tour’s not over.”

Leaving Makka to decide which half of the bed is hers, Yuuri abruptly grabs my hand and pulls me after him. The tension in his fingers, the whiplash change in mood, are warning signs that make me want to pull him back, tuck him straight into that bed, and make him stay there.

_Pick another battle, Nikiforov._

Mari leads the way back to the banquet room, pausing with her hand on the doors.

“It’s a work in progress,” she says. “We didn’t think you’d be coming home until after the GPF, so…” she slides the doors open and stands back, gestures to us to go in ahead of her.

One step inside, and we both stop in our tracks. Yuuri softens his grip on my hand and threads his fingers through mine. We end up supporting each other as we take another wobbly couple of steps deeper into the room.

The old banquet hall has been cleared and transformed from overflow storage and makeshift sleeping area to a multi-purpose studio. One wall is covered in mirror panels. A freestanding barre sits in front of it. A massage table stands along the far wall, next to windows overlooking the outdoor garden area. Rolled-up yoga mats lean in a corner, one purple, one blue.

“We’d planned to redo the floor or install a new one that’s more dance friendly,” says Mari, stepping up behind us. “But we thought we should wait and let you oversee that part.”

“But…we have Minako’s studio for dance practice,” Yuuri murmurs, shoulders hunching again. “This wasn’t—”

“Minako’s classes have waiting lists now, thanks to you. The only way you could get time there is if you show up at midnight.” Mari wanders a few steps into the room, looking around in satisfaction of what is undoubtedly mostly her handiwork. “I wouldn’t recommend doing that,” she chuckles.

“This is amazing, Mari-chan,” I manage, because Yuuri doesn’t seem close to being capable of saying anything at the moment. I frown at the tremor running through his muscles.

“It’s nothing, Vic-chan,” she replies softly. “You’re _sem’ya_.”

I nearly give myself whiplash turning to look at her. She said _family_ in Russian.

“It’s…everything,” Yuuri finally chokes out. Abruptly he releases me and turns to throw arms around Mari, surprising a whoop and a laugh out of her. For several long moments they stay like that while I stand aside, smiling.

Mari pats his back. “Why don’t you guys take a nap? You’ve had a long trip.”

Yuuri steps back, that tension I’d felt within him bursting outward as he fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “Um, it’s early yet. I think I’ll go spend some time at the rink.”

I frown as I watch him seem to fold in on himself. Again. What happened to my sleeping beauty who used to cure jet lag in a nest of blankets and pillows? “Yuuri, maybe she’s—”

“The best way to deal with jet lag is stay awake until your regular bedtime,” he says flatly, as if reciting from memory. He hurries toward the door. “A lot is riding on next season. I need to…I should work.” And with that, he disappears down the hall toward our room. Before I can channel my inner Yakov and issue stern orders.

Mari pinches the bridge of her nose. “ _Kuso_.”

“I’ll go with him.” Gathering my travel-weary and katsudon-drugged body, I take a travel-stiff step to follow him, but Mari stops me with a hand on my arm.

“You should rest, Vic-chan. You haven’t been well.”

I’ve been sending regular, cheery texts to Hiroko about how well I’m doing, how much Yuuri has helped. I imagine Yuuri’s messages have been more frank. I lay my hand carefully on top of hers, unsure of proper etiquette towards a soon-to-be sister-in-law. “It’s okay. I’m doing better. With the treatments, the therapy...I’m going to be fine.”

She tilts her head a little and makes a small noise in her throat. “Still. This isn’t our family’s first…” She shuts her mouth and seems to fumble for words, as if she’s caught herself saying too much. “Not our first experience with a serious illness.”

My heart squeezes. Who? Toshiya? A grandparent? Dear god, please not Hiroko… I search Mari’s face, but her gaze flicks away as she steps back and folds her arms.

Ah. Sensing a weak spot in the Katsuki united front, I pounce. “You must know what’s really bothering Yuuri. Something’s eating at him. He won’t share.”

Mari sighs heavily. Speaks as if each word is being pulled out by the root. “He’s asked us—begged us—to let him tell you in his own time.”

I fold my arms over my chest, tap my pursed lips with a closed fist. “I have a terrible feeling about this, Mari-chan. This is weighing on him like…like nothing I’ve ever seen.” I spread my hands before me in helplessness. In appeal. “Help me with this, Mari-chan. I don’t know what to do.”

She steps closer and takes my hands, dark eyes deep wells of compassion. “Do what you’ve always done, Vic-chan. Meet him where he is.”

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

Nausea clutches at my stomach as I circle the far end of Ice Castle’s rink, and it’s not because I ran all the way here with a stomach full of my mother’s famous katsudon.

_Minako’s studio is full...Ice Castle is busier than ever...we’re going okay...because of your big season._

Mari’s words echo back to me in time with my edge drills, carving away what little equanimity I’d manage to shore up for myself. Each word had fallen on my shoulders like lead weights until I’d almost buckled. I had to get out of that room before walls figuratively fell in on me. Even if it meant leaving Victor behind without an explanation.

As I mounted the steps to the rink entrance, I caught sight of him in the distance, pedaling Mari’s old yellow bicycle onto the bridge I’d just crossed. More guilt piles onto the load I’m already carrying. He should be resting, having a soak in the onsen, maybe a drink with my Dad. He doesn’t need to waste energy babysitting me.

Yuuko had taken one look at me as I’d bumped through the rink’s front doors, and waved me toward the rink. _Takeshi’s teaching the last class of the day, but there’s room._

Somehow the sound of laughing children taking their first tentative strokes on unfamiliar blades soothes me. Background noise, familiar and beloved. I can half-tune it out while I methodically work through my warm ups.

I know without looking when Victor arrives—it’s the class’s sudden silence, then excited whispers. Victor’s warm greetings restart the fan-kid babble as he autographs a few skates and submits to a few selfies. As Takeshi wrangles his students back in line, I glance over to the sidelines as Victor settles onto a bench to put on his skates. He folds forward slowly, taking his time stretching his back until he can reach his feet. I glide over to open the gate.

I try a small smile and almost make it. “I’ll help you lace up.”

He waves me off with a neutral lift of one corner of his mouth. “I’ve got this. Keep going.” He points a finger at me and switches to coach-voice. “No jumps. This session is just to stay loose.” He looks down and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “ _and wear your ass out_ ”.

I push back, resuming my routine, hoping the _skrishing_ rhythm of my blades will quiet the wash-rinse-repeat thoughts churning in my mind.

So many expectations. So much hope. So much depending on my success. Last season, I had tunnel vision, focused only on my own journey, my quest to perform up to my potential.

I deep breathe to try to slow down my accelerating heart rate, but my skating tempo increases.

It’s not just about me anymore. It never _was_ just about me. My performance carries the weight of a country’s pride. My home town, already hit by hard times, is affected by how well I skate. My family’s livelihood, stretched thin over the years to support my skating, will succeed with a clean program, a gold medal. Or fail with one two-footed landing. One hand on the ice.

Sweat breaks out all over my body, my breathing grows labored as bands of tension crank down on my ribs.

Victor is depending on me. To support his comeback against odds made longer by his illness. To make him proud, and show everyone the title of “coach” is his by merit, not by celebrity.

I start counting my breaths. Never a good sign, but I can’t stop. _One, two, three, four…one, two three, four…Dammit, breathe…one, two, three, four…_

Takeshi wraps up his class and I feel his eyes on me as he herds his students off the ice. I can’t bring myself to look at him. Ice Castle, under economic siege these past years, now flourishes. If it falls, it’ll be because of just another dime-a-dozen skater who reached too high and failed.

My precise edges disintegrate into arm-swinging, thigh-thrusting speed skater sweeps, the momentum carrying me dangerously close to the barrier on the turns.

Victor is a blur as I whip by him.

“Yuuri, slow down.”

_One, two, three, four…_

“Katsuki Yuuri! Stop!” Victor’s coach-voice thunders across the ice like Yakov’s on a bad day.

_One, two, three—_

Toe picks. Yeah, there’s a reason speed skaters don’t have them. I catch one going into the far corner and go sprawling. I twist and tuck just in time for my back to take most of the impact. There’s a thin layer of foam padding on the barrier for safety, but I hit hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs.

I roll to my hands and knees, wheezing, fighting to regain control of my diaphragm. Victor appears in my peripheral vision, sprinting, then dropping to slide on his knees until he scoops supporting arms around me.

I don’t want to be held. I don’t want to be _touched_. I just want my fucking breath back, and Victor squeezing the life out of me isn’t going to get it done.

He correctly interprets my flailing and gives me an arm’s length of space, but refuses to let go of my hands. He’s talking in low-pitched Russian, sound and tone I can latch onto without having to process words. A small corner of my static-flooded brain observes that this is a man who hadn’t known what to do when I melted down in a parking garage at the Cup of China. In fact, his fumbling words had shattered me like glass.

Now he sits in the moment with me, not fearless, not by a long shot, but not turning tail to run, either.

Yuuko’s anxious voice comes from somewhere across the rink. Victor answers, “He’s ok. He just needs a minute.”

My diaphragm comes back online and I drag air into my lungs.

“Fuuuck.” I instantly snap my mouth shut and check to make sure the kids are gone. Thankfully, Takeshi cleared them out. Not even the triplets, who are usually scrambling to greet me, are anywhere in sight.

Victor’s worried frown swims into my vision. I try to pull free of his hold without success.

“Nope,” he says sharply, hanging on. “Stay put. Breathe with me.”

“I can’t. I have to _move_ , Victor. I have to—”

“All right, then let’s move,” he instantly agrees, as if determined not to give me anything to fight about. He rises to his feet, taking me up with him, straightening my crooked glasses back on my nose. He pushes off, skating backward, pulling me along by my hands like a tugboat towing a loaded, lumbering barge. “Close your eyes, Yuuri.”

I blink at him, his odd request stalling my racing thoughts. “What?”

“Just do it.” A trace of agitation leaks out, then, regaining control, “Please.”

He hates this, hates dealing head-on with strong emotion. He also hates that it’s one of his worst flaws. But he’s trying to change. For me.

I obey, shutting out everything but his warm hands grasping my icy ones, the sounds of our skates on the ice, his slow, measured breaths. I find myself bringing mine into sync.

“Good.” A long pause, as if he’s trying to decide what to do, what to say. Then, almost desperately: “I want you to think about your long program.”

A few strokes, a few more breaths. “Okay.”

“What’s your music?”

He knows, but, mesmerized by the steady timbre of his voice, I tell him. “Stravinsky’s ‘Firebird’.”

“Nice choice.” He sounds relieved, settling with me into an easy rhythm. “Now start playing the piece in your head. Talk me through it.”

“Um…opening choreography for eight bars, leading up to the first jump.”

“Which is a…” he prompts.

“Quad flip.” The rest of the program begins unspooling in my inner vision, gradually muting that frantic, one-to-three-four counting. “More choreography, like the hawks I’ve seen hunting along the shoreline. Build up speed for the quad toe/double toe, going immediately to a stag leap, then circle around to a triple axel/triple toe.”

“You’re making me tired already.”

I want to echo his laugh. I can’t quite manage it yet. “Flying entry into a sit-spin, flying change of foot, broken leg spin. Really cool hand and arm positions. Like wings. Feathers. Serpentine footwork sequence, popping into quad loop.” In my mind, the intensity of the music builds. My footwork will be fast, intricately woven. Like flames leaping in the dark. “The music slows down after that. Spiral variations, an Ina Bauer, camel spin”

“I’ve always loved your camels,” he purrs.

I find myself smiling. “Yeah, my camels don’t stink.”

“What’s next?”

I’m skating in rhythm with him now, settling. “Um…” I listen to the music in my head, which is entering the final, triumphant horn section. “Coming up to a combination jump.”

He waits, I don’t elaborate. “Isn’t it supposed to be a quad sal/double toe?”

My smile widens. “You can call it that.”

“What do you call it, my Yuuri?” His hands squeeze, his tone mischievous.

“I call it a triple axel/quad toe.”

His skate skids, an off-rhythm stutter. “I don’t believe that combo has ever been landed in competition.”

“You’d be right.”

“Okay.” He sounds a little weak. “We’ll start working on that tomorrow.”

“And I finish up with a quad flip/triple loop combination, then…” the music in my head reaches a crashing crescendo, “split jump, split jump, flying entry into a camel/sit/A-frame/camel/catch-foot/headless scratch spin.”

By this time, Victor is laughing, but not at me. In exultation. “Perfect!”

He catches me up in his arms, and I open my eyes to find he’s leading me around the ice in a waltz. Yuuko, who’s probably been peeking in on us, throws on some cheerful Strauss over the speaker system.

Victor’s bright blue gaze lands softly on mine. “Better?”

I nod, my face heating in embarrassment now that the crisis is past.

He tilts his head. “Talk to me. What were you thinking about just then?”

I blow out through puffed cheeks. “Mainly? How much is riding on this season. How many people—especially my family—is depending on me. How much they’ve sacrificed for…” I swallow hard, turning with Victor in the easy steps of the dance. “I thought I’d learned to handle the pressure.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s always lurking, ready to launch an ambush.” He spins us in slow circles. Sighs. “We have to learn to communicate better, Yuuri.”

I grimace. “I’m sorry, Victor.”

He shakes his head. “We’re both spectacularly bad at it. We’re so used to going it alone, living inside our own heads. I want…” It’s like his throat closes for a second. “I want you to feel safe talking to me.” He strokes the side of my face, which, to my shame, is damp with more than just sweat. “You can, you know. About anything. Nothing you could say would make me angry. Or shock me.”

_How about frighten you? Kill your will to keep fighting?_

Victor must sense he’s hit resistance, because he brings us to a stop at center ice and steps away. I stare at him for a moment. He’s met me where I am, and pushed no further. Giving me space. The next move is mine.

“Want to hear my new music?

For the first time since we got off the plane, I take a deep breath all the way down to my belly button, let it out with a smile. “What did you pick?”

He raises a finger in a wordless signal to wait, and skates to the side to call through the open rink door. “Yuuko, can you play a song for me on the PA system?”

She pokes her head in, smiling warmly at both of us. “You can play it yourself from your phone. We’ve had a new Bluetooth system installed. Hi, Yuu-chan.”

I give her a little wave as I glide to the barrier next to Victor. “Hi. Sorry about…”

“No worries. It’s good to see you.” Her expression turns tender. “And good to see you smile.” Then she takes off, scolding one of the triplets about _homework first, phone later_.

Victor waves his phone, heart-shaped smile maybe a little…hesitant? As if afraid I won’t approve of his choice?

“Ready?”

I nod, leaning back against the barrier to watch. “Feel like skating it for me? Just mark the jumps. I mean, if you feel like it. Show me how the _Stammi Vicino_ choreography fits.”

“I think I can do that.” He taps his phone, sets it on the barrier, and skates to center ice where he assumes the starting position for the routine that won him his last gold. That snagged his attention when I’d skated it like no one was watching over a year and a half ago.

How far we’ve come since then.

The music starts, and a lone tenor voice begins to sing. My Italian is limited, mostly musical terms I learned in school, but there’s a longing, a tender entreaty in it that tugs at my heart. To my eye, Victor’s moves are nearly identical to _Stammi Vicino_. But on the wings of the new music, the dance is transformed into something different. Something more.

Then, as Victor sweeps in a dramatic, curving spiral, arms outspread, the singer switches to English for the chorus.

 _Fall on me_ _  
_ _With open arms_ _  
_ _Fall on me_ _  
_ _From where you are_ _  
_ _Fall on me_ _  
_ _With all your light_

My lips part in wonder. A second voice joins the first, singing about seeing, feeling his lover everywhere, drinking them in like the very air he breathes.

 _Ascoltami_ _  
_ _Abbracciami  
Finché vorrai  
_

By the time Victor strikes his finishing pose, I’ve covered my mouth and nose with both hands, more of those embarrassing tears threatening to spill over. Panting hard, face shining with the thrill of completing the entire program without stopping, he skates over to me, cups my face, and leans down to kiss my forehead. With a little laugh, he pries my hands loose and pulls my arms around his waist, wrapping his around me.

He buries his nose in my hair. Breathes in. Breathes out.

“Yuuri.” His voice, trembling from exertion, from emotion, is soft, tender as the music. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Helping Victor with his evening physio is so much easier with a massage table. I don’t have to kill my back bending over the bed, or my knees kneeling on the floor.

As exhausted as I am right now, I could kiss Mari’s feet right now for her thoughtfulness.

Victor had tried to wriggle out of it, insisting rest was more important than a few stretches and range of motion exercises, but this is an issue I don’t give on so easily. He’ll thank me tomorrow. He always does. In a few minutes, when we’ve finished, we’ll finally be able to go to bed and shake our jet lag. And maybe the gods of sleep will be kind to me tonight.

Victor lies on his back, left foot crossed over his bent right knee, right foot flat on the table. I slip an arm under that knee, support the other one with my hand.

“Here we go. Tell me when it starts to hurt.”

He exhales, puffing out his cheeks. “Okay.”

I frown at him. “When it starts to hurt. Not when it hurts so much you want to cry. Got it?”

He rolls his eyes. “All right.”

“Here we go. First rep.” I roll his knee up toward his chest, stretching the horizontal muscle that connects the outside of his left thigh bone to the base of his spine. Variations of this exercise are a vital part of a skater’s repertoire. Without a strong, supple piriformis muscle, we couldn’t do half the things we do on the ice.

Unfortunately for Victor, his disease’s favorite food is the joint tissue that anchors this muscle.

A tiny line appears between Victor’s brows. “Stop.”

I nod, holding him in position for twenty seconds, then releasing so his foot rests flat on the table again. We repeat the exercise slowly, methodically, ten more times before switching to the other side. With each repetition he can stretch a little further, though the left side is tight as a bowstring.

“Okay, next exercise. Turn over.”

“Let’s do that left side again,” he insists, taking hold of his own knee as if he’s about to do the exercise himself.

“No,” I order, batting his hands away. “If you overdo it, you’ll piss that joint off and it won’t work for days. Tonight you get a CBD oil rub and rest.”

Muttering, he flips to his stomach, obligingly bending one knee so his foot is parallel to the ceiling. With a hand on that foot and the other resting over that piriformis, I move his lower leg from side to side, rotating thigh and hip. When I meet resistance, I probe my fingertips into the muscle, working knots out, easing the joint into something closer to its normal range of motion.

Victor smiles at me from where his head lies sideways on his crossed forearms. “I wonder how many other skaters can say they have their own personal ass man.”

I laugh and bend to blow a loud, obnoxious raspberry on his butt cheek, startling squirms and a high-pitch squeal out of him. Laughter seems to relax any unconscious resistance, and I take a quick video of his range of motion to send to Talia, his physiotherapist, for evaluation. Then I skirt around the table to work on that troublesome left side.

The first knot sits precisely where the tendon connects to his left SI joint. Gently I rotate the tip of my thumb until I pinpoint exactly where it is, and lightly press down.

Victor hisses. “I hate this part.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” I croon. “You know the drill. Tell me when it goes numb.” I hold still until he nods, then I increase the pressure.

“Gaaahhh.”

God, I hate causing him more pain. “Hold on. Breathe through it.”

He blows out through pursed lips and forces himself to relax. Nods. I bear down and he moans, long and low. Suddenly, the knot releases and the leg rotates a few more degrees. Victor sighs in relief.

I go looking for the next knot. I find it a couple inches to the left. It’s not quite as sensitive as the first one, which essentially sat right on the base of his spine. Victor lets out a hurts-so-good moan.

As I work it with my left thumb, that hand takes up that odd, stinging tingle I felt when I touched Victor during his allergic reaction, then again during his meltdown in the locker room. Sometimes even when we’re just lying in bed at night, my hand on his back. I pause, frown at my fingertips, rub them together. Shake my hand out to get rid of the feeling.

“Everything okay?” Victor slurs, blissed out and sleepy.

I lower his leg to the table and absently leave my right hand on his lower back, shaking the left one out again as the tingling gets worse. As I examine it, it seems to move without any conscious command from me to rest beside the other one, palms and fingers flat on Victor’s body.

Both hands are tingling now, and that _pull_ twists deep in my gut. It’s automatic now, following my instinct to relax into it, letting go of whatever Victor’s aching body needs from me.

“It’s fine.” I should move on to the next exercise but, oddly, my hands seem stuck where they are. “It’s…”

 _Whoa_.

Something inside me cracks open like a broken dam. Heat sweeps up through my body like a swarm of fiery bees, races down my arms, sears my hands. Sweat beads at my hairline, drips down my face and neck. Sticks my t-shirt to my skin. My knees shake.

Victor moans softly, eyes closed, forehead lolling on his forearms, toes curling. “That feels so good, Yuuri. Makes…all the…pain…go away. Don’t stop.”

My eyelids grow heavy. “I…” _Won’t_.

The room tilts and I sway, bend at the waist to rest my head on the edge of the table. I try to lock my knees, but they buckle and hit the floor. My hands stay stubbornly glued where they are…until Victor’s body heaves, breaks the connection. I try to grip the edge of the table to stay upright, but my hands are slick with sweat.

_Tired...so tired..._

Arms catch me, cradle me. Dimly, as if from far away, I hear Victor call my name.

Then, call for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: (From Google, all mistakes my own)  
> Sukoshidake, onegaishimasu. Gomen. – Just a little, please. Sorry.  
> Ascoltami – Hear me  
> Abbracciami – Hold me  
> Finché vorrai - As long as you want/need  
> Sem’ya (семья) – family
> 
> Sorry for the extra week it took to get this chapter up. My beta readers netsirhc and Mel Combs were the soul of patience. Our messages went something like this:
> 
> Me: This chapter is giving me fits.
> 
> Betas: Think about rewriting this part from Yuuri's point of view.
> 
> Me: (whinging) Don't wanna.
> 
> Betas: No, really, you should rewrite it. It'll be so much better. Yuuri's emotional stakes are higher.
> 
> Me: (sobs)
> 
> Betas: DAMMIT, WOMAN, REWRITE IT!
> 
> Me: (wails and whines)
> 
> Betas: . . .
> 
> Me: [rewrites chapter]
> 
> \---
> 
> The song Victor is skating to is Andrea and Matteo Bocelli's "Fall on Me". https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ChcR2gKt5WM 
> 
> Fall on Me, song written by Ian Axel, Chad Vaccarino, Fortunato Zampaglione, Matteo Bocelli  
> Lyrics:  
> I thought sooner or later  
> The lights up above  
> Will come down in circles and guide me to love  
> But I don't know what's right for me  
> I cannot see straight  
> I've been here too long and I don't want to wait for it  
> Fly like a cannonball, straight to my soul  
> Tear me to pieces  
> And make me feel whole  
> I'm willing to fight for it and carry this weight  
> But with every step  
> I keep questioning what is true
> 
> Fall on me  
> With open arms  
> Fall on me  
> From where you are  
> Fall on me  
> With all your light  
> With all your light  
> With all your light
> 
> Presto una luce ti illuminerà (Soon a light will illuminate you)  
> Seguila sempre, guidarti saprà (Always follow her, she will guide you)  
> Tu non arrenderti, attento a non perderti (Don't give up, you won't get lost)  
> E il tuo passato avrà senso per te (And your past will make sense to you)  
> Vorrei che credessi in te stesso, ma sì (I wish you believed in yourself, but yes)  
> In ogni passo che muoverai qui (In every step you take here)  
> È un viaggio infinito (It is an infinite journey)  
> Sorriderò se (I will smile if)  
> Nel tempo che fugge mi porti con te (If in this fleeting time you take me with you)
> 
> Fall on me  
> Ascoltami  
> Fall on me  
> Abbracciami  
> Fall on me  
> Finché vorrai  
> Finché vorrai  
> Finché vorrai  
> Finché vorrai
> 
> I close my eyes  
> And I'm seeing you everywhere  
> I step outside  
> It's like I'm breathing you in the air  
> I can feel you're there
> 
> Fall on me  
> Ascoltami  
> Fall on me  
> Abbracciami  
> Fall on me  
> With all your light  
> With all your light  
> With all your light
> 
> \-----
> 
> The therapy technique Yuuri uses on Victor is called trigger point release. Some basic info here: https://www.painscience.com/articles/self-massage.php. In a nutshell, when you have chronic pain, your body unconsciously tenses up against it, all the time. Eventually the muscles get annoyed at this and respond with inflammation and spasms (knots) in the muscle fibers and in tendon tissue. Pain management specialists do trigger point therapy, either as Yuuri did by manipulating the knots, or injecting the knots direction with a combination of lidocaine and cortisone. I've had both types of trigger point therapy, neither is pleasant at the time, but they work.
> 
> Next up in Chapter 11: Yuuri last defense is shattered, Victor tries to fix things, and help comes from an unexpected source.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Katie L., Jill P., Virginia M., and other autoimmune warriors too numerous to count who lost their battle. You are not forgotten.
> 
> Content warning: This chapter contains references to a non-canon character’s past suicide. Suicide among autoimmune patients is frighteningly high, in no small part because medical science focuses on visible, measurable symptoms, and too-often neglects the emotional toll of these disorders.

“We are at our most powerful the moment we no longer need to be powerful.”  
~Eric Micha'el Leventhal  
  


CHAPTER ELEVEN  
  


**_Victor_ **

At the sound of an ominous _thump_ to my left, all relaxation disappears and my eyes fly open.

Yuuri is on his knees, head sagging forward, the only thing holding him up the fingers curled tightly into my jinbei pants.

“Yuuri?”

He sways sideways with a faint moan.

Twisting crablike on my stomach, I shoot out a hand to grab his arm, then jackknife and throw myself off the table in a mad scramble to catch him. About all I accomplish is getting an arm between his head and the floor.

I land on my ass, the impact rattling from my tailbone to the base of my skull, like landing a jump without the shock absorption of flexible ankles and soft knees. I ignore the pain, hauling Yuuri’s frightening dead weight across my lap. His eyes are half-open, seeing nothing. Though he’d been freshly showered before starting my therapy, sweat soaks through his clothes.

“Yuuri...” I gently pat the side of his face, desperate for those amber-brown eyes to come back to me. I’ve seen people pass out before, and as soon as they’re horizontal they usually wake up, blood returning to their heads. This isn’t happening now.

I roll to my knees, hook my hands under his armpits, intent on picking him up and carrying him to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. It shouldn’t be hard—only months ago, I lifted him practically over my head during our GPF gala duet. Now? I plant my left foot on the floor and push up, only to have a warning salvo crack up my spine.

My left leg collapses. I grunt in surprise and just avoid dropping my precious cargo to the hard, wooden floor. Frustration balls my fist and punches it into that betraying limb.

_Damn this body._

Ruthlessly I screw the lid down on my anger and force myself to focus. Breathing? I turn my cheek to his mouth and nose. Check. Pulse? I press shaking fingertips to the fluttering point on his throat. Rapid, but strong. Skin cold and clammy. I look around for something to cover him with, grab for the sheet on the massage table and tug. Unfortunately, it’s fitted and refuses to come off. I do, however, manage to snag the pillow that’s fallen to the floor and ease it under his head where it rests on my upper thigh. It doesn’t take long for its weight to start putting my leg to sleep.

Yuuri moans, limbs all restless slow motion as if submerged in molasses. He curls to his side, his ring hand finding my left knee and wrapping around it. As if he’s found his anchor point, he emits a deep sigh and goes still. Too still. I grasp his shoulder and give him a little shake. Another one, harder.

“Yuuri, are you with me? Yuuri?” Rising panic squeezes my throat. I’ve seen Yuuri lightheaded from anxiety, from the exertion of a long program. I’ve never seen him just...collapse like this.

He curls tighter into himself, eyes moving rapidly under his closed lids as if dreaming. He mutters something. Soft. Broken.

_"Kaida..."_

The hand grasping my knee turns feverishly hot. I don’t know what’s happening, but it can’t be good. In fact, it’s scaring the shit out of me. I glance around wildly, looking for something—anything, anyone—to help. Nope, no one around but useless, _weak_ Victor Nikiforov.

This room is too far removed from the main part of the onsen for anyone to hear me if I shout. It’s after hours, and the staff will be occupied cleaning and tidying for tomorrow. The family quarters are even farther away. Yuuri’s phone is plugged in clear across the studio. Mine rests on the windowsill, out of reach. Why is my phone never close to me when I need it? I grind out a frustrated noise, and spend precious seconds trying to talk myself into leaving Yuuri alone long enough to walk—or crawl—a few feet to get to my phone.

I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead I try to haul Yuuri closer into my arms, pillow and all. Fail, because he's latched like a limpet to my leg. I go still when I hear something rumbling down the passageway.

Hope brings my slumped spine bolt upright, my arms tightening around Yuuri’s limp body. “Help! Uh…um…” What the devil is that word? “Tasukete? _Tasukete_! Onegai!”

Mari, pushing a rolling bin full of clean towels for the onsen, appears in the door. She gasps, abandoning the bin and racing toward us, pulling a radio out of a pocket in her apron to rapid-fire instructions to someone on the other end. From the torrent of words, I catch _tou-san_. Dad. And another couple words that raise my hackles.

_Happening again._

* * *

_This isn't the first time I've sat with Kaida while Aunt Hoshi runs errands. But something about this day feels different, and it's not just the college applications spread all over the foot of her bed. It's something oddly familiar. Like I've been here before. Or, maybe, some inner compass that always knew this day would come._

_“I love you, Yuu-chan.”_

_I glance up in surprise. On her good days, Kaida is a wheelchair-bound whirlwind. A one-person cheering section at my competitions. Today the disease has the upper hand. She is pale and thin, except for her unnaturally rounded moon face, a painful testament to the massive amount of steroids keeping her alive._

_I tilt my head at her and try for the most natural smile I can muster. “What brought this on?”_

_From the nest of pillows supporting bones so fragile they could snap at the lightest pressure, she surveys the organized chaos on the bedspread. Piles of forms, pens, highlighters, notebooks, envelopes, my laptop, a neon-green energy drink, capped and flopped on its side._

_She moves an arm, and the corners of her eyes and mouth pinch in pain. “You’ll be leaving soon.”_

_I shrug and duck my face back in front of my laptop screen. “I haven't made a final decision yet. Maybe we'll both end up taking online classes—"_

_She snorts softly. “We both know I won’t be going to college, Yuuri.”_

_That brings me up short. “Of course, you will. You’ve already got enough credits to graduate high school. That’s been our plan all along, hasn’t it? We’re a team. I’m going to skate, and you’re going to be my agent.” I study her face, so hard to read when it’s this distorted. “Right?”_

_Her gaze flicks sideways. “I guess.”_

_I frown. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this low. Physically, yes. But her spirit has always been unstoppable. I reach out and pat her foot, trying not to jostle her. “Besides, everything hinges on what the test results say.”_

_Her brows, as thin as the brittle hair she stuffs under a TEAM YUURI ball cap, slam together. “I don’t care if you’re a match. I won’t let you do it.”_

_I rescue a pile of paper that's about to slide off the edge of the bed. Her small jaw is set in an all-too-familiar clench. “Kaida…”_

_“No, Yuuri!” Her voice is steroid-hoarse. “An athlete needs both kidneys to compete at the elite level.”_

_“No,” I hold tight to my patience, “they don’t. I’ve done the research.”_

_Her lower lip trembles. “If you do this, the recovery time is… You might not be allowed to skate for months. You could miss the whole season!”_

_With a sigh I put my laptop aside, scoot closer to take her hand. “I’ll deal with it and it’ll be fine. I’m only 18, and anyway it may take time to find a college near Detroit that offers enough financial aid and scholarship money.”_

_“You’ve just started making your mark in the senior division,” she argues. “The Olympics…”_

_“Aren’t even on my radar yet. I have a lot of work to do to qualify for the Grand Prix series and Worlds. I think Coach Celestino will get me there.” I cradle her hand in both of mine, sweeping my thumbs lightly over the bird-light bones. “You’re my cousin, Kaida. My best friend. Let me do this. Please.”_

_We stare at each other in silent battle until something in her eyes changes, and she looks away. Sighs. Goes quiet for a long time. I don’t understand her hesitation. She needs a kidney. If I’m a match, I can give her a healthy one. She gets to live._

_Somehow, the tear of capitulation she brushes away with an impatient, crooked finger doesn’t make me feel like I’ve won._

_The deep breath she takes in and lets out doesn't seem to bolster her at all. In fact, she seems to shrink even smaller under the blankets. “Could you get me some water?”_

_Just the fact she asks politely gives me pause. Normally, even confined to her bed or a wheelchair, she is a little dragon, imperious and bossy._

_I shove my laptop to the foot of her bed, where I’ve been camped out since practice ended hours ago, and head for the kitchen. It’s not far; Oba-san Hoshi’s house is small. On her good days, Kaida’s my partner in crime. On bad days like this, her pillow nest is her refuge, and this spot at the foot of her bed my guard tower._

_I bring her a small glass—her kidneys can’t handle too much at once—and help her sit up enough to drink. I know she's in agony, but as is her way, she refuses to whimper. Her dark eyes avoid mine as I set about packing up my stuff to go home, but when I’m turned away I feel her watching me until I’ve slung my bag over my shoulders._

_By this time, her glass is empty, and her eyes glint with a decision. With fingers that sometimes don’t let her do the simplest of tasks, she fishes her necklace from under her pink, glittery “I (heart) skating” shirt and pulls on it as if trying to break the delicate chain. She’s not strong enough._

_“Kaida! What are you—do you want this off? Is it bothering you?” Sometimes her skin is so sensitive, the lightest touch leaves a bruise. I lean forward and undo the clasp for her, and she pulls it off in a fist that won’t close all the way._

_“_ _Take it, Yuuri. For luck when you go to Detroit.” She holds it out, its pendant a simple key. A gift from the Nishigoris—along with a brand-new wheelchair ramp—to remind her she has a second home at Ice Palace. Even if she will never put on a pair of skates._

 _“But…” I reluctantly take the necklace, only because I know how it hurts her to continue to hold it out like that. “It’s_ your _good luck charm.”_

_“It’s yours now,” she whispers, as if the effort of our argument has cost her the last of her daily allotment of strength. She subsides into the pillows that Hoshi taught me how to arrange for a patient in constant pain. Her 15-year-old body is no bigger than a 10-year-old’s. Destroyed by a disease that eats joint cartilage. Crumbles bone. Shortens life._

_“All right,” I concede, swinging my backpack off and tucking the necklace carefully into a zippered pocket. “But you’re getting it back when I win the Grand Prix Final.”_

_Her eyelids droop, and a faint smile crosses her lips. “Deal.”_

_Recognizing it’s time for me to go, I pull her blankets up to her chin. “There you go. See you tomorrow at the rink, okay?” She doesn't answer, more listless than I’ve ever seen her. I lean in conspiratorially. “I was going to surprise you, but I can’t wait. I’ve finally got my quad toe.”_

_Skate talk always seems to perk her up, but this time, her only reaction is a tear sliding out of the corner of her eye to disappear into the hair at her temple. She searches my face as if memorizing it. Concerned, I crouch on the floor next to the bed so we’re eye to eye. “You’re coming, right? I’m counting on you to watch me, chīsana ryū.”_

_Finally, she gives a minute nod. “I’ll watch you always, ani. I just… Will you…” She shudders like she’s little again and scared there’s a namahage under her bed. “Hold my hand until I sleep?”_

_“Of course.” This is one request I’ve never had the heart to refuse her. Her gnarled fingers sneak out from under the blanket, and I take them readily. Silence settles between us as my hand warms her cool skin. Her eyelids slide closed. Her breathing steadies. Slows._

_Fatigue drags at my body, and as an odd_ pull _twists slowly somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach, I let my head fall to the edge of the mattress._

* * *

_…Yuuri, hold my hand until I sleep…_

“Yuuri, let him go.”

_Shinai._

_…Hold my hand…_

_“Wake up, Yuuri. Please wake up. God...why isn’t he waking up?”_

_Shinaide kudasai._

_…until I…_

“Listen to me, son. Let go now.”

_Yameru!_

_…sleep…_

* * *

**_Yuuri_ **

A voice that should not, _could_ not exist echoes to silence in my head before I can grasp it. Chills race down my skin from head to toe. My throat is raw, like I’ve been screaming.

I scrunch my forehead, trying to make sense of where I am. I slowly crank my eyelids up to half-mast, squint blurry vision against dim light filtering in from somewhere. I shift on a soft mattress, flat on my back under a warm blanket.

Wait...wasn’t I just in the studio with Victor?

Someone is tracing small, precise patterns on the crown of my head, between my eyes, the hollow of my throat, over my heart. I have to struggle to make my eyes settle and focus on the face attached to the hands. Oba-san Hoshi.

Some kind of warm, golden energy flows through me, seeming to come from her hands, chasing away the chill. I want to curl up and wrap it around me. Around Victor.

 _Victor_.

I roll my head a little and find him sitting with his back to me on the foot of the bed. He’s hunched over, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands. My mother has an arm across his broad shoulders, talking softly in a mixture of Japanese and broken English. Periodically his chest catches on a quiet sob. _I couldn’t lift him…wasn’t strong enough…_

The words to tell him I’m okay surge but die in my sore throat. My fingers twitch toward him, but the blanket might as well be woven from lead.

Hoshi presses a dry, warm hand to my cold-sweat forehead. _Rest, Yuuri. Sleep._

The next time I open my eyes, a few extra degrees of awareness show me I’m in my bedroom. My father is supporting my shoulders with his strong arm, coaxing me to drink from a water bottle. Hoshi is standing in shadow, holding my feet, humming softly. Mari sidles through the door carrying a tray bearing a tea pot and cups, the angles of her face sharply outlined in the hallway light. I wonder dimly where my glasses are, because everyone’s blurry shapes seem to be wreathed in different colors. My dad in warm, comforting orange, Mari in green, Hoshi in vivid hues of purple and indigo blue.

Victor and my mother are nowhere in sight, and for a few seconds my heart thumps as I flick my eyes around the room, looking for him. The spot where he’d been sitting at the foot of the bed is occupied. I blink at it, thinking it must be Makka, but I can’t force it into Makka’s shape.

A girl sits cross-legged, contentedly reading a book. She’s illuminated in soft, white light that seems connected to Hoshi with glowing, undulating cords, feeding and supporting my aunt’s pulsating purples and blues. I don’t recognize her until she looks up at me and smiles.

My mouth falls open and tears dampen my eyes. The last time I saw this girl—young woman, really—she could barely sit up on her own, much less pretzel her legs like that. Or even hold a book. The weight of it would have stabbed agony through her fingers, broken a fragile wrist. Now she glows with health, black hair falling thick and shiny about her shoulders. My lips form her name, though no sound comes out.

 _Kaida_.

_Go back to sleep, ani._

_How did you get here?_

_I never left. Not really. But now I think I can. Soon._

_I don’t understand._

_You will. Victor is a good man, Yuuri. Stronger than I ever was. Trust him._

I find myself trying to twist sideways across the bed to reach for her. More than one pair of hands push and pull me back down, tuck the blanket tightly around me. Another drink is pressed to my lips. I think I’m crying, because it’s hard to swallow.

I slow blink, and it’s full daylight. My bedroom is empty except for Victor’s familiar shape spooned at my back, his pale arm and elegant hand around my waist. His heat is a comforting contrast to an unseasonably cool breeze drifting in through the open window above the head of the bed. I must have made a noise, because he curves those wide shoulders protectively around me, brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“How are you feeling, my sleeping beauty?” he whispers, as if unsure I’m awake.

“Like I’ve been hit by a—” Sandpaper in my throat scrubs off the rest of the sentence. My swallow is a loud, dry crackle in the quiet room. A water bottle drops out of nowhere to hover in front of my face, cold liquid sweating the plastic in Victor’s fingers. His other hand slips under my head.

“Here, I’ll help you,” he says gently.

I take a few greedy pulls from the straw, cool wetness soothing my raw hamburger throat. For a fleeting second I wonder if I’ve come down with strep or something. I let my head fall back on the pillow, no energy to move from where I’m curled on my side. A soft thump behind me tells me Victor placed the bottle on the nightstand.

“Wh’ happened?” I mumble, my mouth and tongue oddly uncooperative.

Victor combs fingers through my hair, trails them over my shoulder and up and down my arm, a touch that seems to reassure him as much as comfort me. “You were helping me with my physio. Do you remember?”

A few blinks, and I let my heavy lids fall shut again. “Mm-hm. Got dizzy. Now ’m here.”

His fingers halt mid-stroke. “You passed out. I tried to catch you, but you hit the floor too fast.”

I wince. “Graceful.”

A soft huff of amusement. “No, we ended up in a rather untidy heap.” An aftershock sigh. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t pick you up.” His voice is heavy with shame. I turn my head to look over my shoulder, but his eyes are downcast, chin tucked like he can’t bear to let me look at him.

“Vitya…”

“Luckily,” he goes on, busying his fingers to smooth wrinkles from the blanket covering me, “Mari happened to be passing by.” He pauses as if he’s leaving something out. “Otou-san carried you here.”

A fuzzy memory of someone power-lifting me out of Victor’s arms, fabric tearing, a cry ripping from my throat, bounces back from the void. “Did I hurt you?” I try to lift my head to look, only to set the room spinning. I flail an arm behind me, fingers tracing over his jinbei pants. There’s a hole over his left knee.

He grabs my wrist and tucks me back in the circle of his long arms. “No, my pants were the only casualty. You had quite a grip, and your family almost got an eyeful they didn’t need, but I’m fine.”

I shudder to think of the damage I could have done if I’d dug into skin. “Please tell me you didn’t try to pick me up.”

“Well,” he laughs ruefully, his chin atop my head. “Let’s just say I was smart enough not to try a second time.”

I hiss and reach behind me again, try to slide an assessing hand to that left hip, his back, to feel for unnatural heat, knots in muscle and tendon. To my surprise, Victor catches my wrist before I can make contact.

“No, Yuuri. I told you I’m fine. Stop worrying about me.”

Maybe it’s sleep-brain, but I could swear he sounds irritated. Maybe even…angry?

A light knock on the half-open door, and Hoshi pads in bearing a tray. Taking one look at me, at Victor’s restraining hand on mine, she deposits the tray on my desk and hurries to perch on the edge of the bed beside me.

Her expression is carefully neutral. “It’s good to see you awake, Yuuri.” She takes my hand away from Victor, who lets me go so easily that I frown.

I look back and forth between them. Their tired faces are a road map of long, sleepless hours. Dread yawns deep in my gut, because something about this scene is hauntingly familiar. “How long have I been out?”

Hoshi pats my hand, very pointedly not letting it go. “Hiroko called me late last night to come and help. You’ve been asleep over fourteen hours.”

_Oh God. Not again._

Shocked to full alertness, I turn my head and look at Victor, really look at him, for the first time.

His glacier-blue eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed and swollen. His moonlight hair is wild above scruffy, unshaven cheeks, his fine-boned face etched in tender worry. In his eyes, a new burden of knowledge I never wanted him to carry.

He brushes my hair off my forehead. “You were calling Kaida’s name in your dreams. Hoshi told me—"

“Oh,” I squeeze out around a lump in my throat. “No.”

Adept at sensing when the anxiety animal in my head is about to sink its claws in, Victor tightens his arms, a preemptive anchor. “It’s all right. You’re not alone. You’re okay.” Makkachin, pressed dutifully to Victor’s back, lifts her head and whines.

“ _No_. I didn’t want this for you.” I curl as best I can into a ball. Maybe by some miracle I’ll reduce myself to a single point and disappear.

Hoshi exhales and, without letting go of my hand or otherwise moving in any way, does…something. Whatever it is, it makes the anxiety animal not only stop snarling, but go silent altogether. I blink, and in the split second my eyes are closed, I see flashes of brilliant purple. I stare at our joined hands, hers radiating heat from palms that, a moment ago, were cool against my skin.

“What did you just do?”

Hoshi releases me, sits back a little, shakes out her hands, then folds them in her lap. I stare, eyes wide. I could swear she just flicked sparks off her fingertips. Victor’s intake of breath tells me he saw it, too.

“A very old healing tradition.” She looks as if she’s about to say more, but changes her mind. “I will tell you more later, when you’re feeling better.”

I uncurl just a little, disoriented by the sudden quiet in my head. Victor, propped on an elbow behind me, pets my arm from my shoulder to elbow. Over and over. I absorb his touch, my heart stumbling over the very real possibility that a time could come that I won’t feel it anymore.

Hoshi’s gaze meets mine, unflinching. “Why?” I whisper miserably. “I didn’t want him to know. Not yet.”

She smiles, aching, gentle. “This is a memory you can no longer bear alone. Remember what I said about putting on your own life jacket first?”

I nod, but then quickly shake my head. I don’t know what I’m rejecting, though. This genie is out of the bottle and no amount of wishing will put it back.

Victor leans in close to my ear. “Oba-san didn’t betray your confidence. She only told me Kaida was your cousin, and that she died. She promised to tell me more, but not until you were awake. Please, Yuuri.” His voice roughens. “This is breaking you. For a while now, I’ve suspected something is wrong. Back in Saint Petersburg, I saw you killing yourself on that treadmill late at night. And I found the vodka bottle.”

I cover my face as a sob jerks my entire body, my humiliation complete. “I…I couldn’t sleep.”

“I know,” he says, wrecked. “But you know what? I’m proud of you.”

I drop my hands and turn my head to stare at him. “What? Why?”

He breathes a quiet laugh. “Remember last year, when you had that earth-shaking revelation that katsudon was your _eros_? That night I went out and drank myself so stupid, Nishigori had to peel me off a bar stool and pour me into my own bed. Just because the boy I loved, loved pork cutlet bowl more.”

“That’s not—"

“I know that now.” He strokes my hair, feathers fingers across my wet cheek, “I wish I’d known then that you were carrying unimaginable grief in this heart.” He taps my chest. “Carried it alone all the way to the Grand Prix Final in Sochi, to the podium in Barcelona. And you held yourself to half a bottle of vodka over three months? That’s strength, Yuuri.”

He cups my jaw. “You know what? I shouldn’t have refused to kiss that silver medal in Barcelona. I know this won’t make up for it, but…”

He leans forward and places a soft kiss on my forehead. Holds his lips there with a hand at the back of my head. Holds as emotion boils up and spills from my throat and floods my eyes. Holds until I bury my face in his solid chest, twist desperate fingers into his shirt. He wraps his arms around me and hangs on as the storm breaks.

I don’t know how much time passes before I come up for air, hiccupping, knuckling my eyes. Victor accepts Hoshi’s offered tissue and holds it to my nose. I laugh weakly and blow. “ _Gomen_ ,” I mumble, blushing furiously at my complete and total breakdown, even though it was in relative privacy.

Victor brushes his fingers across my cheek. “Don’t be embarrassed, my Yuuri. Everything about you is precious to me. Even your tears.”

I draw back and give him a look. “You _hate_ tears.”

He shakes his head, his weary blue eyes steady on mine. “I hate what makes them fall.”

“I think,” Hoshi says gently, “that’s needed to happen for a long time. I’ll prepare some tea.”

Thing is, I don’t think the storm is over. It’s just a small break in the clouds. Makkachin must sense it, because she tries to crawl between us. But Victor gently shoos her back to his other side, where she settles with an aggrieved _whuff_.

“She’s a little distraught,” says Victor, stroking her silky head. “Ka-san made me leave for a while, and she didn’t know which way to turn. She didn’t want to leave either of us.”

“Poor girl,” I whisper, twisting to get my own hand into her fur. She licks my fingers and settles her chin onto her paws, dark button eyes shifting back and forth between us.

Victor helps me sit up against the headboard while Hoshi prepares three cups, raising her eyebrow at the amount of sugar he requests. There are two covered bowls on the tray, one of which is probably rice, the other smelling unmistakably of rich miso soup. The artful arrangement of dishes and utensils on the tray has my mother’s stamp all over it. Which makes me wonder where the rest of my family is.

“Everyone is preparing the onsen to open for the day,” Hoshi says, as if reading my mind. I wince with guilt, thinking of the long night my family put in taking care of me, when they face another long day running the onsen. “Don’t worry,” she assures me. “If things get slow this afternoon, they promise to close early.”

I relax against the headboard, leaning against Victor’s shoulder as I cradle the cup in slightly shaking hands. Hoshi pulls my desk chair next to the bed and settles into it, legs folded comfortably on the seat. Morning sun lies gently on her face, time-worn and grief-lined, yet serene. I wonder how she can be so at peace when, for me, Kaida’s death is a still-bleeding wound.

“There are things I’ve learned since we lost Kaida that I think you need to know,” says Hoshi. “You both need to know, because it affects Victor, as well.”

Victor slides his free arm behind my shoulders, and I forget to be self-conscious about being cuddled in front of someone else. I’m too busy absorbing his comfort and scrying the tea in my cup for a fraction of Hoshi’s calm.

“From Kaida’s birth, she and Yuuri had a special relationship,” she begins.

I can’t help the wobbly smile that tugs at my lips. “You put her in my lap when she was a newborn and something in my brain just…lit up. From that moment, in my mind she was my little sister. I was, what, three?” I glance at Victor; he’s wearing _oh, that’s so adorable_ all over his face.

“Please tell me there are pictures,” he begs.

“Oh, there are. Trust me.” Hoshi winks at him before she goes on. “Everyone noticed right away that she never cried when Yuuri held her. When she was diagnosed a few months after her birth, he took to it like it was his life’s mission. I’d have to chase him out the door to make him go home. As they both grew older, no pain medication helped as much as when Yuuri simply held her hand.”

“Oba-san explained to me that Kaida had rheumatoid arthritis,” Victor puts in, twisting his cup in his lap with his free hand. “I understand it’s similar to what I have.” He sighs sadly. “So young. _Bednyaga_.”

“Very similar,” I murmur, staring down at my own cup. “Treatments evolved exponentially during her lifetime, but she couldn’t catch a break. She never found anything that worked for her. She couldn't go to school like other kids, never ran and played. She had her books, though. And she had…” I gesture vaguely at myself.

After years of barely uttering her name, memories tumble over themselves to be spoken. Hoshi lets me ramble, memories of her own playing across her face.

“She gave her doctors nightmares. I’m convinced she hacked her wheelchair somehow to make it go faster. She was an unbeatable tabletop gamer and president of my online fan club. She’d come to the rink to watch me practice and became the rink mascot. Everyone loved her. And when she could make it to a competition, she was a cheering section all on her own.” I laugh a little at the memory of her everything-Yuuri outfit and wheelchair festooned with home-made banners and balloons. I’ll have to show Victor the scrapbooks sometime. It feels good, load-lightening, to talk about her, but I sip tea against my raw throat, against the inevitability of where the story is going.

“There were some who frowned on your unusually close relationship,” says Hoshi, so matter-of-factly, I almost miss the weight of it. “Our family had no use for those people, because we knew the truth.”

I glance up in surprise. “People…talked about us?”

She waves a hand. “People with nothing better to do will always talk. Anyone with eyes could see you were best friends, that you were good for each other. And if you holding her hand made her feel better, I was not going to let the rumor mill take that away.” She flushes a little, as if ashamed of herself. “If I had known then what I know now, though…”

I glance up from my cooling tea, curious. “What do you mean?”

She sets her cup aside, folding her hands under her chin. “Be patient, because this is going to seem roundabout. Not long after Kaida died, I joined a grief support group, and the leader happened to be a Reiki practitioner. It’s an ancient energy healing technique she used in her sessions, to wonderful effect. I dedicated myself to learning more, and that’s when it dawned on me what was happening between you and Kaida.”

She leans forward, making sure she has my full attention before speaking. “Yuuri, you’re an empath.”

I blink at her. “A what?”

“Someone who is unusually open to the energies around them. Mental, emotional, spiritual. All the signs point to it. Your anxiety, especially in crowds or high-stress situations. Your sensitivity. Your self-doubt. Your need for alone time. Your friendships are few, but strong, and when you sense a need in someone you love, you’re prone to give without holding back.”

Victor gasps. When I look at him in concern, his eyes are huge, lips parted.

“There are many healers who use their own energy resources in their practices,” she goes on, “but they must be very, very disciplined about it. Making sure to ‘fill their own tanks’ and knowing when to stop before their reserves get too depleted.” She squeezes my hand. “Natural empaths like you, Yuuri, who’ve never been trained, who aren’t even aware of what they are, can easily drain themselves to the point they become ill. They may go their entire lives never knowing why.”

Victor makes a noise like he’s been punched in the stomach. Hoshi reaches across me to grab his knee, and that soothing energy begins flowing again. “I know what you’re thinking, Vic-chan,” she says sternly, “and I want you to stop it. Right now. This is not your fault.” Her tone brooks no argument, and he swallows miserably and nods.

Hoshi takes a fortifying breath, and her power flowing from her hand to me, to Victor, like a circle protecting us from what’s to come. “Many times, the only way Kaida could fall sleep was with Yuuri holding her hand. He always drifted off on the floor beside her, and Toshiya would come to take him home. Sometimes he had to carry him, force him to leave her side.”

“Like last night,” Victor says, fingers tightening on mine. “It took four of us—me, Toshiya, Hiroko, and Mari—to make you let go of me.” Again, I get that feeling he’s leaving something out.

I turn and meet Victor’s distressed blue gaze. I could let Hoshi tell the rest of the story, but I can’t.

I take a shaky breath. “When she was 15, Kaida’s body started to lose the fight.”

Victor raises my hand to his lips and holds it there.

“When her kidneys failed, it was the last straw for her. She fought going on dialysis tooth and nail. I think she was just ready to be done with life. Everyone—friends, family, hell, most of Hasetsu—got tested to see if anyone was a match to donate. There was only one.”

Victor exhales, his lips moving against the back of my hand. “Oh, God. Yuuri. It was you.”

I nod. “Me. I was old enough to give consent. And I was ready. Except…” my breath hitches, “She wouldn’t accept it. She insisted it would be wasted on her, because she was never going to get well. She was convinced I needed both my kidneys to achieve my goal of competing on equal ice with Victor Nikiforov.”

Victor makes a small sound in his throat.

“That wasn’t true, of course. I’d done the research. But my skating career was her obsession. If I gave her one of my kidneys, I’d potentially be giving up a whole season of competition, right when I was on the verge of making headway in the senior division. We…we argued…”

I let go of Hoshi’s hand and cover my mouth to hide my trembling lips. “I thought I’d convinced her that everything would be okay. I thought we had it all planned. I’d donate my kidney, heal up enough to head for Detroit and attend college classes until I was well enough to begin training with Celestino. She’d take online courses and eventually become my manager. Maybe it was a pipe dream, but… I thought her having a goal would...” My throat locks up.

Hoshi picks up the threads. “I found them as I usually did,” she says softly, “Yuuri on the floor next to Kaida, holding her hand. But there was an empty pill bottle she hadn’t quite managed to hide under her pillow. And she was gone.” She wipes at silent tears tracking down her face. "We never noticed she was hoarding her pain pills."

Victor whispers something in horrified Russian.

“Yuuri didn’t wake up for over 24 hours. We had no idea why, but now I know his empathic response had been activated, and he was giving her his energy.”

I blink at her, mouth open. “I was?”

She nods. “Unwittingly, instinctively, you were trying to keep her alive even after you lost consciousness. Doctors tested you for everything but came up negative. I’m convinced if I hadn’t walked in when I did, we might have lost you, too.”

“I didn’t know she had died until I woke up,” I manage around a golf ball lump in my throat. “I never got to…to…”

Both Victor’s arms are around me now, one hand easing my head down to the shelter of his chest. “You never got to say goodbye to her. Or to little Vicchan. No wonder you fell apart at Sochi,” he murmurs, his tears for me dampening my hair.

I break out in fresh sobs, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes as if that’ll stem the tide. “I was so angry. At her for giving up and leaving me. All of us. As if her fight—our fight—meant nothing. Then at myself for not seeing the signs, for not helping her more. I failed her.”

“Oh, Yuuri, no,” Hoshi and Victor chime in almost together.

Through Hoshi’s hand on my knee, I feel that blanketing, honey-gold energy again flowing, loosening the anxiety’s hold on my throat. Gulping air, I look into her face and the love, the absence of judgment, hits me full in the gut.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m so sorry.”

She smiles tenderly. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

A vision of Kaida holding out that shiny key toward me punches up out of my memory. “I should have…the signs...I was there and I didn’t…”

“I’m her mother and I should have seen the signs, but I didn’t.” Hoshi soothes. “No one is at fault. It took me some time to come to terms with that, but it’s the truth.” She grips my shoulder and shakes it at little, as if it’ll help get her point across. “You were _18_ , Yuuri. Little more than a child. I don’t blame you for anything. No one does. If anyone, I blame myself for allowing you to shoulder the burden of easing her pain. It was too much. It was unfair.”

I let out a watery half-laugh. “Even if we had known what I was...um, what I am, apparently? You couldn’t have stopped me.”

Victor strokes my hair, a smile in his voice. “I know first-hand that no one can, once you’ve made up your mind.”

At the rumble of Victor’s beloved voice in my ear, the warmth of his arms around me, my worst fear claws at my throat. I’m too tired to keep it inside anymore. Too weak.

“When you were diagnosed, Vitya, all this _stuff_ I thought I’d finally put behind me just…crashed in on me again. I’m afraid of losing you.” The words feel like they’re being jerked out of me, between sobs. “Just like h-her. If…if I fail again. If I miss a detail and you lose the ice. I’ll lose you, too.”

And then I can’t speak any more, because I’m crying too hard. Victor pulls me in his arms, his words a meaningless jumble in my ear. Hoshi’s energy surges against the demons of the past clawing at my mind.

* * *

**_Victor_ **

I’m pretty sure anything I tried to get Yuuri to hear fell on deaf ears, but I kept talking anyway, just to give him something to hang onto, something to guide him home through the storm of tears he cried on my chest.

Through it all, Hoshi was our anchor, hands on Yuuri’s back, tirelessly transmitting an energy so strong I felt where my skin touched his. What did she call it? I don’t remember, but she promised to tell us more at some point.

As all storms do, Yuuri’s died down to the point I was able to walk him to the shower, where he leaned against me as I tenderly washed sweat and tears off his skin. Then back to feed him some of the reheated soup and rice before tucking him into fresh sheets that Hoshi had quickly changed while we were in the bathroom.

Once I’m finished smoothing the sheet over him, ensuring Makkachin’s worried snuffling isn’t going to wake him, adjusting the speed of the ceiling fan, and closing the blinds to deflect the early afternoon heat, I stand a little awkwardly in the middle of the bedroom, somewhat at loose ends with nothing left to do but watch Yuuri sleep.

I wrap my arms around myself and try not to remember what happened last night. The Katsukis using their combined strength to get Yuuri to let go of me. Yuuir’s soul-wrenching screams, shaking the studio walls. My own wild tears and Mari’s restraining arms as he’d been carried away from me.

_Wait, Vic-chan. Give them a few moments. Catch your breath before you go to him._

I watch Hoshi move quietly to each corner of the room, tracing patterns in the air while her lips move in a silent chant. Colors fly off her fingertips, just like sparks sometimes flick off Yuuri’s. I’d thought it was an optical illusion, but apparently, it’s a real phenomenon.

“What are you doing?” My near-whisper sounds too loud in the sacred space she’s creating.

“Just ensuring sweet dreams,” she says without breaking her rhythm. She finishes her task and returns to stand beside me, tilting her head and quirking a small smile my way. “Have you slept at all?”

I shrug. “Here and there. Hiroko tried to feed me at some point and I might have napped over a bowl of…something. Otherwise, every time he moved, I popped awake. In case he needed me.” I glance her way, observing the fatigue around her eyes. “You haven’t slept either.”

“Well,” she says, “I’ve been working with the energy, so that’s kept me going. But I could use a break, so I’ll go home to feed my cats and return tonight.” She pats my arm and steps toward the door.

“Wait…” I reach for her but stop myself, curling my fingers against the urge to beg her to stay. Her concerned gaze meets mine and, as if sensing my need, she takes my suddenly shaking hands in hers.

“What is it, Vic-chan?”

"I should have said. Earlier." I swallow hard, feeling like I've come too close to losing Yuuri to form the words without crying. "Thank you for helping us. And...I'm so very sorry for your loss." The last comes out in an all-one-word rush.

She inclines her head in acknowledgement, her quiet dignity a thing of beauty. "Thank you for sticking with Yuuri through all this," she says. "Not many would, you know." A faint shadow crosses her calm features, there and gone in an instant. "As for Kaida, well...there are times I feel her loss keenly, and others, like last night, like she's right at my elbow."

I smile. "I don't doubt it one bit. But...um, can I ask you something else? Just one more thing," I add hastily, "If it's not too much trouble."

To her credit, she nods patiently and refrains from checking the time. "Ask me anything."

I search for the right words, eloquent ones. In the end I just blurt out what's on my mind. “I don’t know what to do, now that I know Yuuri’s a… Is it safe for me to…” I flail, mime touching my own chest. A hard lump forms in my throat, compressing my voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt him anymore.”

Understanding shoots her brows upward, then she gives me a reassuring smile, patting my arm. “You won’t. You two can touch. It’s all in the intention, so Yuuri will have to be mindful of _why_ he puts a hand on you at any time. At least until I can get him attuned and trained.”

I pounce on the chance to ask the question burning on my tongue. “What _is_ this…this thing you do?”

Hoshi's expression is an exact copy of Dr. Sorokina's _I'm about to teach you something_ face. “It’s called Reiki, which means, literally, ‘universal life energy’.”

I test the word with silent lips. _Ray-kee._

“Practitioners draw on this unlimited source for healing at all levels—mind, body, spirit.” She glances at Yuuri, but he sleeps on, oblivious to our conversation. “Once I learned Reiki, realized what Yuuri is, I wanted him to learn it, too. I thought it would help him as a tool for self healing, for shielding and protection.” She sighs in regret. “But by that time, he’d long since moved overseas to train, and didn’t come home for five years. In the state of mind he was in, I’m not certain he would have been receptive, anyway.” She looks up at me from her diminutive height. “It’s not something that can be imposed on another person.”

I furrow my brow at our linked hands. During Yuuri’s breakdown, she’d briefly placed one of hers on my knee, and it’d been startlingly hot. Now, her hands are cool in mine. _Intention._ “So, you can use Reiki—am I saying it right?—to heal yourself or another person?” I freely admit I can be not-the-brightest-bulb-in-the-package sometimes, but there are possibilities lighting up in my head right now.

I can use this. I can help Yuuri, take some of the burden off him by helping myself.

“Do you think this is something I could learn, too?”

“Of course,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze. “I’ll be happy to train and attune both of you. If that’s what you want.”

“When?” I burst out, my gazing falling lovingly on Yuuri, who’s emitting the _cutest_ snore. Which tells me he’s sleeping peacefully at last, not drowning in nightmares.

Hoshi chuckles. “Not today, Vic-chan. You both need some time after this. And we’ll need to talk more about it first before you decide if it’s really what you want.”

“It is,” I say firmly, never more sure of anything in my life. “But we’ll talk first. Speaking of talking,” I glance at her, meet the merry sparkle in her eyes. “Your English is extraordinarily good.”

“Ah. Well, I travel quite a bit to teach at Reiki retreats, mostly to Hawai’i and America’s west coast. I didn’t want to keep having to hire an interpreter.” She pats my hand and releases me to step back. “Get some rest. Eat. Drink lots of water. I’ll check in with Hiroko before I go, and I’ll be back later.” She points at me. “Encourage him to talk. The dam has broken, but I suspect the reservoir is nowhere near empty.”

I smile as I walk her to the bedroom door. “I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (via Google translate, all mistakes my own)  
> Namahage – Japanese equivalent of the boogey man  
> Ani – big brother  
> Chīsana ryū – little dragon  
> Shinai – don’t  
> Shinai de kudasai – don’t do that  
> Yameru – stop  
> Bednyaga (Бедняга) – poor thing  
> Tou-san – shortened, more familiar version of “otou-san” (father)  
>   
> Resources:  
> United States National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255 Please check your local listings for suicide hotlines in your country. You are not alone.  
> [International Association of Reiki Practitioners](https://iarp.org/)  
> Mayo Clinic: [Pediatric (Juvenile) Rheumatoid Arthritis](https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/juvenile-idiopathic-arthritis/symptoms-causes/syc-20374082)  
>   
> Notes:  
> Some chapters fight tooth and nail to be written, and it seems like it’s the ones that need to be written most are the ones that fight the hardest. This one was a knock-down-drag-out, and I think my muse has a black eye.  
>   
> I lost count of how many times I wrote, scrapped, re-wrote, scrapped again, started over. Took scenes out. Put them back in. Oy. I apologize to you, dear readers, and thank you for your patience. This chapter cut very close to the bone for me.  
>   
> I know there are some readers who are going to think “Oh, look, a magical healing thing that comes in to save the day, that can’t be real.” Let me assure you Reiki is no joke, it is real, and it saved my life. It’s an energy healing technique that draws upon universal life force energy to heal at all levels - mind, body, spirit. It will always go where it is most needed, and that sometimes means it’ll heal in ways you didn’t know you needed. It can do amazing things. I’ve seen it. But sometimes all it can do is ease a soul peacefully into the next life. Or help you deal with a chronic illness that can’t be healed. Reiki did not make my RA go away, but it healed my broken spirit and inheld rage at the unfairness of it all. In the process, I now take fewer medications and I’ve recovered amazingly fast from multiple joint surgeries. I’ve accepted that I still have RA, will probably always have it, but there are lessons I still need to learn, and things that maybe I can teach others about dealing with chronic illness with grace, without fear.  
>   
> Much love to netsirhc and Melissa Combs, betas extraordinaire. Your hand-holding and loving encouragement may have been virtual, but trust me, you dried a lot of tears.
> 
> Next time: Victor overcomes one of his biggest fears, Yuuri struggles to deal with changes, and Oba-san Hoshi steps in to help.


	12. Chapter 12

_A healer’s power stems not from any special ability, but from the courage to embody and express the universal healing power that every human being naturally possesses_ .  
~Eric Micha’el Leventhal

CHAPTER TWELVE 

**_Victor_ **

It’s my turn to lose sleep.

Two hours after Hoshi’s departure, I’m still awake, listening to the straight-down deluge of rain outside the open window, ignoring the twinges in my back, and watching the gentle rise and fall of Yuuri’s as he sleeps. All the times this beast in my body relentlessly drained him runs on a continuous, tortuous loop in my head.

Looking back, I know now his sacrifice began even before my diagnosis.

_You won’t hurt him. You two can touch._

My fingers twitch. I ache to touch Yuuri, comfort him in his sleep with caresses down the beautiful curve of his back, the little scratches behind his neck he loves so much. I hold back, unsure what will happen if _my_ intention is clear but Yuuri is defenseless in slumber.

I can’t take the risk. I don’t know enough yet how this whole life force energy thing works. Because whatever was happening between us before, no matter how noble Yuuri’s intention, it went terribly wrong.

I push my poorly self-constructed pillow props to the floor and quietly begin running through the series of simple exercises to stretch my lower back. Hours spent lying or sitting with Yuuri, rocking him through his tears, or pacing the hallways and stone paths of the onsen complex because Hiroko or Mari threw me out to force me to take a break, have left me stiff and aching. I’m way out of the routine that keeps me limber, except for the prompts Yuuri set up on my phone to remind me to medicate and eat.

Even then, it had sometimes taken Toshiya appearing in the door, leveling a take-no-crap stare at me, to pry me from Yuuri’s side. Making me wonder if Yuuri’s cheermeister dad once led a very different life. I have no doubt he could carry me bodily anywhere he pleased, just as he did Yuuri.

Yuri may have inherited his mother’s curves, but that rock-solid strength? All Toshiya.

I bite back a groan as I shift my left leg to lay my ankle across my raised right knee. Damn, it’s bad today. Grasp behind the right knee with one hand and pull up while pushing down on the left knee. I hold my breath against the soreness in my left hip and small of my back until I remember to breathe through it and to not let my athlete’s muscles push too hard. Hold for thirty seconds. Release and repeat. Switch to the other side.

I’m almost finished with the last set of repetitions when another alarm on Yuuri’s phone goes off.

Shushing Makkachin and moving her fluffy bulk aside, I reach across Yuuri’s boneless, prone body and grab the noisy device before Bon Jovi’s “Bad Medicine” gets a chance to repeat. Despite the dip in the mattress, Yuuri’s snores barely break rhythm. As I swipe to turn it off, I get a look at the reminder.

_Vitya – mtx_

Oh. It’s time for my weekly methotrexate injection.

For almost a full minute I sit still, gazing down at my Yuuri, who’s so deeply asleep he’s drooling on the pillow. He needs this rest. He’s been starved of it for months. If I wake him up to give me my shot, he’ll do it without a second thought.

But I don’t want to.

I’m not _going_ to.

Jostling the bed as little as possible, I slide out and set my feet on the floor. Uugh…every muscle in my body fights against my effort to stand up and walk to the desk, wincing as a tendon in my hip cracks so loud it’s a wonder Yuuri sleeps through it. I survey the array of meds and supplements Yuuri already set up, including the methotrexate vial. Placed neatly next to it, an alcohol swab packet and the sterile-wrapped syringe.

I blow out a quiet breath as I stretch and bend to work out some kinks, running through the injection procedure in my mind. I’ve watched Yuuri perform it several times now. He does it with the efficient, almost poetic precision of a Japanese tea ceremony. I shake out my arms, roll my sore neck, and bounce a little on the balls of my feet as if I’m about to hit the ice for the Grand Prix Final.

I can do this.

Sliding into the desk chair, I pop the plastic cap on the vial. Try not to make noise as I tear open the swab. Wipe the rubber gasket sealing the vial. Unwrap the syringe, pull off the cap, draw back the plunger. Flip the vial upside down, carefully insert the… _gulp_ …pointy stabby thing through the gasket.

Push the plunger to inject some air into the vial. Draw it back slowly, watch the yellow serum fill the syringe to the required dose. Withdraw the needle, flick the syringe to dislodge any bubbles. Try not to flick it across the room. Push plunger a tiny bit to expel any excess air.

Show time.

I pull the tie on my jinbei shirt loose and tuck the edges aside, and push the waistband of the matching pants low on my hips. My gaze snags on the hole above my left knee. I suppose I could get it repaired, or simply discard and replace the pants, but something within me balks at the idea. No. I’ll keep it as it is, a reminder of the dark place I’ll never again allow Yuuri to fall.

To my surprise, my hands don’t shake as I find an unbruised spot on my lower belly and wipe it with the alcohol pad.

I can do this.

Before I give myself a chance to think about it, I jab the needle through my skin just like I’ve seen Yuuri do it. It’s a little harder than I expect and the split-second sting squeezes the tiniest of whimpers from my throat.

_I can do this._

The short length of the needle sinks in. For a second, I stare down at it in fascinated horror. Then, giving my head a little shake to make myself stay on task, I place my thumb on the plunger and press. The serum disappears painlessly under my skin, and I draw the needle out, swab the spot again. It doesn’t bleed at all.

 _Now_ my hands tremble a little as I drop the syringe in a sharps container and sweep the leftover bits and pieces into the trash can.

Then I punch both fists silently into the air as if I’ve won a gold medal.

“Look at you, handling that syringe like a pro.”

Startled, I swivel the chair to find Yuuri propped up on an elbow, glasses perched on his nose, dark amber eyes shining above a sleepy smile. He sits up and holds out his arms. “C’mere.”

I happily lunge up out of the chair, take a step toward him, and stop as if I’ve walked into a glass wall. I’m frozen with indecision.

He frowns, drops his arms, and quickly flips the blanket aside, rolls out of bed to his feet. “Vitya? What’s wrong? Is it another muscle spasm in your back?” He takes a step and reaches for me.

I step back. “Wait.”

He halts, swaying on his feet as if fighting the compulsion to come to me. Blinks, balls his hands into fists. His face goes curiously blank.

_Say something, Nikiforov. Right fucking now._

“Just…” I hold my hands up, palms out. “For one second.”

Understanding flashes across his expression. The memory of last night’s revelation about his empathic gift. He stares down at his hands. Shoves them through his messy hair, clasps them at the back of his neck. He bites his lip, thinking.

“This morning, while you were sleeping, Oba-san told me—” I blurt out, desperate not to let that thinking thing he does pull him down a mental rabbit hole.

His gaze snaps up to mine, mouth dropping open. “My aunt told you not to let me touch you?” He looks away, hands falling to his sides. “Wow. I really must be a freak.”

“No. _No_ .” I hasten to break that destructive train of thought. “In fact, it’s the opposite. I told her I was afraid I’d hurt _you_.”

He frowns. “You wouldn’t—”

“She said it’s safe,” I plow on before he can loyally defend the indefensible. “But…hold on, I want to get this right.” I pause, trying to remember her exact wording. “You have to be mindful of _why_ you’re putting your hands on me at any given time.”

His brow wrinkles in incomprehension.

“What were you thinking right now, when you wanted to touch me?” Engaging him has always worked better than long reams of verbiage.

“I…you…you’re hurting and I…” his voice catches, “I want to make it better. Try to fix it.”

“There it is.” I dare to step close to him and stroke a hand down the side of his face. “You do it without even thinking.” I swallow, the memory of his limp body in my arms hitting me hard. “And yesterday, it caught up with you. I don’t want that to happen again. Ever.”

He scrubs his hands against his shorts. “Intention.”

“Exactly,” I pounce. “Exactly what she said.”

He laughs a little hopelessly. “If I have to think about it before I touch you, all I’m _going_ to think about is why I shouldn’t. Because that’s how my brain works.”

“Then don’t think.” The words tumble out before I’ve really thought them through.

He shakes his head. “That makes no sense.”

“Get out of your head and talk. Talk through it like we talk through your routines. _Say_ what you mean to do before you do it.”

“Uh…”

I grimace, acutely aware this problem is zeroing in on the weakest part of our relationship. I’m flying by the seat of my torn jinbei pants, but when it comes to Yuuri, that seems to be the norm. “It’ll be like learning a quad.”

Yuuri’s face folds into a helpless grin. “What?”

He must think I’m ridiculous, but if it makes him laugh, I’m willing to throw myself on the altar of humiliation. “Hear me out! We talk through it, physically practice it, step by step, until it becomes second nature. Well, mostly.” I bury my burning face in my hands. “This is the worst analogy ever.”

He moves closer, the sound of his bare feet soft on the bamboo flooring. “Okay.”

I let my hands fall and stare at him. At the face I’ve come to know so well, the one that says _I’m going to do this and I’m going to get it right._

Not for the first time since I set foot in Japan, I wonder if I’ve created a monster.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

I nearly swallow my tongue.

“Because you’re…y-you’re amazing and I l-love you for…just… _accepting_ all this and rolling with it and staying by my side.” His nervous stutter, combined with his squared jaw of determination, is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. “So. I’m kissing you. Now.”

“O-okay,” _Brilliant, Nikiforov. You’re the king of sparkling repartee_.

Our lips an inch apart, his brown eyes stare into mine. So close they’re slightly crossed.

“This is awkward.”

I grin back at him. “We may have to rehearse. A lot.”

He presses his lips to mine, warm and soft, a little dry and chapped from the stress of the last 24 hours. The kiss is chaste, testing the waters, as if waiting for any weirdness to start happening. When it doesn’t, he slips his arms around my shoulders, and mine go around his waist, pulling him close.

He pulls away and props his chin on my shoulder, his relieved sigh warm on my ear. I bury my face in his sleep-fragrant neck.

“I know giving yourself that shot that was hard,” he whispers, trailing fingertips up and down my back. “I’m so proud of you.”

I grin against his skin. “Thanks, coach. Erm…you’ll probably have to handle the other shot.” I shudder a little. “The pen is too abrupt. Like a staple gun. And it stings.”

He laughs, then pulls back to look at me, cradling my jaw in one hand, thumb stroking under my eye. “I will,” he says, voice still husky with sleep. “Anything you need.”

I lean into his hand, and for several long seconds everything that poured out last night swirls between us. I can’t look away from changing light in Yuuri’s eyes, darkening with the memories he held inside for so long.

I hook my fingers over his wrist, holding his gaze with mine. “I’m sorry about Kaida. And I’m sorry my diagnosis brought back all this pain for you.” I want to say more, but words stick in my throat. I fold him back into my arms, thinking maybe if we’re not looking directly at each other, the words will come easier.

“I was afraid,” Yuuri whispers, “if you knew how bad it could get, you’d lose hope. Stop fighting.” He presses his forehead to my shoulder and squeezes me so tight I have to suppress a groan.

 _Blyad_ , I’m sore today.

Placing my hands on his shoulders, I move him away from me a few inches and cup both palms around the sides of his neck, making sure he’s paying attention.

“I promise you, here and now, Yuuri, that I will never give up. I will never leave you alone in this world. Not voluntarily.”

His eyes fill with tears and the rain outside falls heavier in harmony. I fight to keep from joining him, because I’ve got more to say.

“I will do anything and everything. Do my therapy, pump my body full of whatever medications will help, eat healthy—”

He starts to laugh.

“—never touch another drop of alcohol—”

He erupts with a very inelegant snort, propping himself against my chest for support as he dissolves in giggles.

“—go to a monastery and meditate—”

“Oh my god, stop.”

“—take my training seriously and listen to Yakov—”

“Now I _know_ you’re full of shit.”

I raise a finger to indicate the most important point on my list. “And learn to do this Reiki thing Oba-san talked about.”

His laughter fades.

The rain chooses that moment to stop, the only remaining sound the drip, drip, drip of water off the eaves and the trees. A hesitant sun peeks through the window, softly illuminating one side of Yuuri’s face. I take his hands in mine.

“We’ll fix this,” I assure him, squeezing tightly. “With Oba-san’s help. She said she’d teach us how to do Reiki, and that’ll solve everything. I’m sure of it.”

He’s frowning again. Not good. “I…uh…”

I open my mouth, close it. Remind myself that this is Yuuri, who rarely makes a big decision without thinking it through up, down, and sideways. And sometimes spirals. So, I quell my natural inclination to launch into a verbal barrage to make my case.

“Talk to me,” I urge instead. Whatever’s bothering him, I want it out in the open, not squatting in the pit of his mind like a toad.

He’s quiet so long, I wonder if our first stab at real communication is going to be an abject failure. Finally, “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says hesitantly. “I just…need to learn more about it, first. Make sure it’s right for me. For us.” He lets me go, rubs his palms on his thighs, gives me a small mile. “But I can tell you’re excited about it already.”

I nod eagerly, trying not to wave my arms around like a madman. “I researched it a bit online while you were sleeping. Oba-san is going to come back tomorrow and talk more about it. But Yuuri, it sounds like the perfect solution. With Reiki we can help ourselves and help each other, without worrying that what happened last night will happen again. Without my issues hurting you.”

He rubs his forehead in frustration. “Vitya, it wasn’t you that hurt me. You wouldn’t.”

I go still. “I didn’t mean to, but I did. This disease inside me did.” _Diseased. Me._ I push that word combination aside to stay focused on Yuuri.

He sighs. “Okay, I can see we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one. But okay. I’m intrigued by the idea of Reiki, too. I just...have questions.”

His stomach chooses that moment to growl like a dragon awakening from slumber.

I grin at him, heading a little stiffly for the suitcase for a fresh change of clothes. “We’ll get all our questions answered. For now, how about we get some food then take Makka to the beach before we hit the rink? Getting outside will do us all some good.”

At the word “beach” and the sight of my wide-brimmed sun hat emerging from the suitcase, Makkachin perks up and starts bouncing around on the bed like the puppy she hasn’t been for years.

Laughing at her antics, Yuuri catches the t-shirt and track pants I lob at him, then looks me up and down with a critical eye. “If you’re up to it. You look like your back is bothering you.” He curls his fingers into the bundle of clothing in his hands as if restraining himself.

“It’ll get better once I start moving.” I divest myself of the jinbei and pull a tee on over my head, wincing when my spine cracks audibly, painfully. In the next instant, Yuuri is at my side, running a hand over my lower back. I freeze. “Yuuri don’t…”

“Just for a second,” he says absently, as if his mind is focused elsewhere. “If there’s heat in the area we should—” The last part of his sentence cuts off as cleanly as if sliced with a knife. His hand has stuck itself to the left side of my back, at hip level. Right where it was last night when the real trouble began.

Heart thudding, I reach out and touch his arm, ready to grip his wrist and pull him off me if necessary. “Carefully. If you feel anything bad, stop.”

He nods, that look of deep concentration firmly in place.

A few seconds later, he jerks his hand away, throwing both up in a gesture of backing off, cheeks going pale. “Nope.”

I turn to him. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he assures me, shaking out his hand. “At least now I’m aware of what it feels like.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. “What _does_ it feel like?”

“My palm gets warm and it tingles. When you were having a really bad time, like your allergic reaction, it felt like hot needles stabbing.” He touches his belly. “And here. Deep inside, like a string tied to my core is trying to pull something out.”

“And you just…let it happen?”

His face twists as if he’s having trouble describing the feeling. “My instinct is not to fight it. It…hurts less that way.”

 _Jesus_. “But you think you can stop?”

“Yeah…I think I can. Stop it or just not do it. Now that I’ve made the connection.” A little color comes back to his cheeks and he offers me a small smile. He turns away to set his glasses aside and change his clothes.

My mouth waters at the muscles rippling across his back and shoulders as he pulls off his sleep shirt and pushes head and arms into a clean tee. And I find myself praying that this new wrinkle—his empathic gift—won’t bring yet more changes to our sex life. One of us having limitations, we can work with. Both of us? That’s a challenge I don’t want to contemplate right now.

He turns to me, fully dressed down to his trainers, and his chest expands on a determined breath. “I want to hold your hand while we go get food and then to the beach.”

This time, stating his intention rolls easier off his tongue, and a place low in my abdomen contracts as I imagine him using that tone in a more intimate setting. Like our bed, deep in the night.

Makka barks, and Yuuri laughs, bending to ruffle her fur. “Yes Makka, the beach! But first…” he grasps my hand without a hint of fear, and tows me along after him out of the bedroom and down the hall. Mindful of my hitching gait as I follow.

Partway to the family dining room off the kitchen, Yuuri pulls me into a small room I hadn’t noticed before, a quiet nook with a tall, display-type cabinet set up along one wall. Its double doors are open as if in welcome, revealing a variety of small statues, one of which I recognize as Buddha. A votive candle flickers silently in a thick glass holder; beside it sits a small bowl of white sand from which a few recently burned incense sticks protrude. The pleasant, resinous scent still lingers in the air.

“This is our family’s _butsudan_ ,” says Yuuri quietly, kneeling on a cushion before the shrine and lighting a fresh incense stick from the candle, inserting it carefully into the sand.

I stand back a little awkwardly, not quite sure where a decidedly non-religious Russian belongs in this sacred space. But with a gentle smile, Yuuri offers his hand, supporting my elbow as I settle onto the cushion beside him. Whatever prayers I have inside me, I offer them so that my knees don’t crack. They don’t.

Makka plants herself behind us, her snout with happily lolling tongue poking between our shoulders.

“There’s a couple people I’d like you to meet.” Yuuri leans up and turns one of several family photos toward me, and my heart constricts.

“It’s you and little Vicchan,” I coo, reaching out to brush my fingers over Yuuri’s child-round face, the miniature poodle’s button nose.

He takes the picture off the shelf and lets me hold it, as I’m obviously dying to do. “For a long time, I felt guilty for leaving him for five years, and I still hate that I wasn’t here when he died. But…” He sighs as if letting a burden go. “The whole family loved him. He never lacked for care and affection. Even the customers looked for him. He was the prince of the onsen and spoiled rotten. Dad thinks he was the good luck charm that kept the business going when all the other hot springs in town closed down.”

I hand the picture back and he places it precisely in its spot on the shelf. Then he reaches for another that sits beside a statue of what looks like a serenely praying woman—whose jade-carved face somewhat resembles Hoshi’s. He gazes at it for a few moments, a variety of emotions chasing across his face before he gives it to me.

“This is Kaida.”

I cradle the small photo in my hands, staring down at it. Yuuri and Kaida smile back at me, their heads close together. It must have been taken at a competition, because Kaida is decked out in a full array of home-made KATSUKI fan gear from her hat to her shoes. Yuuri kneels by her wheelchair, dressed in a simple black tuxedo skating costume and holding up a certificate proclaiming his first-place finish in his age group. Yuuri looks to be about 12.

I hold the picture closer in the subdued lighting. Kaida’s wearing a wide smile, but there are hollows under her eyes, and lines of years-endured pain etched on her unnaturally rounded face. Her lower jaw is so undersized, the rest of her features look too large above her tiny chin. The fingers enfolded in Yuuri’s careful hand bend in directions no fingers ever should, and her small shoulders hunch above a profoundly curved spine.

Yet there’s a spark in her eye that matches Yuuri’s.

“She was a fighter,” I whisper. “Like you.”

Yuuri sighs quietly, turning his glistening eyes down to his lap. “She was. Right up until she couldn’t anymore.”

Hoping I’m not taking a liberty I shouldn’t, I rise up on my knees and carefully place the picture next to the one of Yuuri and Vicchan. Then I settle back and take Yuuri’s hand, waiting for him to look up at me.

“We’ll fix this, Yuuri.” I squeeze lightly. “With Oba-san’s help, we’ll figure this out. Together.”

For a moment that all-too-familiar flash of uncertainty crosses his face, but then he nods. “Together.”

* * *

_Two days later_

**_Yuuri_ **

“Ready?” Oba-san Hoshi stands at the other end of the massage table, like a guardian, as I stand at the other end behind Victor’s head, trying to dry my sweaty palms on my jinbei pants.

I crack what I’m sure is a horribly not-okay smile her way. “As I’ll ever be. I guess.”

Victor grins up at me from where he’s lying on his back, pillows under his head and knees, his blue eyes holding nothing but complete and absolute trust. “It’ll be all right, _moye solntse_.”

For the better part of the day, we’ve been cloistered in our studio with Hoshi, learning the basics of level-one Reiki. Makka lost interest hours ago and was last seen headed for her second favorite place at Yu-topia Katsuki. The kitchen. Despite Victor’s notoriously short attention span toward all things not-skating, he’s been remarkably focused on his studies all day, diligently taking notes in the workbook Hoshi provided, and memorizing all aspects of the chakras. Proper hand placement relative to the chakras, and most importantly how to ground so as not to hurt ourselves. He’d laughed like a delighted child while she taught us fun games like pass-the-energy-ball, and a moving meditation that his long, carved-marble-pale limbs and obvious enthusiasm turned from a simple movement into a dance.

I’d made all kinds of mistakes, unable to tear my eyes from him.

I’d approached the training with a little more reticence and dozens of questions, all of which Hoshi answered patiently. And I’m still not sure I’m completely comfortable with this whole…thing. Most of her games and movements seemed silly and pointless—until Hoshi seated Victor and me side by side for what she called our official “attunement”.

My eyes were closed for most of it, my hands in the gassho or prayer position until Hoshi took them, opened them, and did…something. Whatever it was, when she closed my hands and put them back in place in front of my chest, there were colors flickering faintly behind my eyelids. And I thought I heard a girl’s laughter, far off like it was in another room.

After the attunement, Hoshi took us through the exercises and games yet again. This time, I swear I _felt_ the ball of energy gathered between my palms, maybe even saw an elusive wisp of an outline.

Now, standing at Victor’s head, preparing to give him my first Reiki session as an attuned practitioner, anxiety whispers insidiously in my ear, and I’m already sweating under my jinbei.

The silence stretches a little too long.

“Yuu-chan?” Hoshi says gently from her place by Victor’s feet. “Would it help if I assist in grounding you?”

I let out a relieved breath. “ _Hai_. Please. That would be great.”

She nods placidly and moves to stand behind me as Victor reaches up to briefly brush his fingertips across my cheek. “I trust you.”

I laugh, the sound shaky with nerves. “Good that one of us does.”

Hoshi places her hands on my shoulders. They’re comforting, warm. “Nothing bad will happen. I promise you. I’ll be right here.”

“Okay.” Closing my eyes, I assume the gassho position and take in a cleansing breath, silently calling on Reiki as I let it out slowly. A strange calm slides under my skin, starting at the top of my head, descending, descending, until it seems to exit the soles of my feet like roots into the floor, deeper, reaching into the home soil of Hasetsu.

Hoshi, as if she can see everything, hums a little in approval.

When I open my eyes again, everything—my body, Victor’s, the plant in the corner—appears to be outlined in faint, pulsating colors of light. I make a mental note to ask Hoshi about it later. Right now, I have a job to do.

“Lift your head a little, Vitya.” He obeys, raising it just enough so I can slide both hands underneath, cradle the back of his skull, my fingertips meeting at the base.

Victor smiles and closes his eyes with a contented sigh, his body going boneless on the table. Soft instrumental music issues from a small Bluetooth speaker on the windowsill, harmonizing with the patter of rain in the garden outside.

I don’t feel anything.

“Oba-san? Er, it is all right to talk?”

“Yes.” There’s a quirk in her voice, as if the question amuses her. “Do you have a question?”

“What’s supposed to be happening right now? I don’t really, uh, feel anything.”

“You may not,” she assures me. “That doesn’t mean nothing is happening. You might feel warmth in your hands, a slight rise and fall of sensation which is the energy’s natural cycle.” Her fingers on my shoulders squeeze a little. “A Reiki session can be exciting; most of the time, it’s more like watching grass grow. Relax and let the energy do what it needs to do, for the best, highest good of the receiver.”

I narrow my eyes and try to concentrate.

Another squeeze on my shoulders. “Stop trying so hard, Yuuri. Trust, and let it flow through you. Try to force it, and you’ll only get in its way.”

I roll my eyes. “You sound like Coach Celestino.”

“Well, he’s right,” she retorts cheerfully. “Do you feel ready to move to the next position?”

“I think so. There’s nothing much happening in Vitya’s head.”

“Hey,” he grumbles, but his mouth twitches.

“Sorry,” I grin down at him, following up instantly with a whispered, “ _Not sorry.”_

Victor’s smile widens, then he bites his lip, and suddenly we both dissolve into giggles. We try valiantly to stop, but every time our eyes meet, we’re off again.

I withdraw my hands from under his head. “ _Gomen_ , Oba-san.” She just chuckles.

“Don’t worry, it’s completely normal. I actually enjoy hearing laughter in my classes. Don’t fight it, and it should pass.”

Victor sighs and my own diaphragm relaxes as I complete the hand positions at the sides of his head, then his forehead, between those beautiful eyes. By the time I lean forward slightly to place my hands at the base of his throat, his heart-bow mouth has gone slack and he’s… _snoring_?

“Uh…”

“Normal,” Hoshi whispers, her grounding hands steady on my shoulders. “Feel ready to fly on your own, now?”

I nod. “I think so. _Arigato_.”

“ _Dōitashimashite_.” She steps back and returns to her previous place at the foot of the table, where she places her hands flat on the soles of Victor’s feet.

For a few minutes I let my mind sink into the music rather than try to make something happen under my hands. Presently I become aware my palms are getting warm, and there’s something running underneath them. Like flowing water. Its pressure rises and falls gradually, like a miniature tide.

“Huh,” I observe eloquently.

Reading my expression, Hoshi smiles wide. “Are you feeling it?”

“Y-yeah! I think so.”

“Still feeling safe?”

Oh. I’ve completely forgotten to watch for the warning signs that things are going wrong in my body. But there’s nothing. No needles in my palms, no pulling sensation in my core. I look up and smile at my aunt. “I think I’m okay.”

Confidence blooming in my chest, I move around the table to Victor’s side and place my hands on the center of his chest. And laugh again, because his heart chakra leaps and dances under my hand like it’s happy to see me.

Victor stirs, blinks sleepily back to awareness. “What’d I miss?”

I smile down at him. “Actually…nothing.”

His eyes widen and his ring hand flies up to cover mine on his chest. “You’re okay?”

Exhilaration quickening my heartbeat, uncaring that my aunt is watching, I bend down and smack a kiss on the back of that hand. “I’m really okay.”

Victor bursts out with a joyful laugh that shakes his entire body on the table. “I knew it! I knew it would work.”

I heave an over dramatic sigh. “Yes, _coach_ , you were right. God, I’m never going to hear the end of this.” Victor quiets, upward curve lingering on his lips, as I move on to the next chakra, his solar plexus. Peace seems to settle around us like a cocoon as I slowly work my way down his body, ending at his feet. Hoshi moves aside to let me take her place, moving to her satchel to retrieve something from a side pocket.

“Do the sweep from head to foot like I showed you, then we’ll have Victor turn over so you can feel the difference between the front and back aspects of each chakra.” She holds up a clear crystal attached to a slender chain. “And I’ll show you how to use a pendulum.”

I step back to Victor’s side and, working slowly, I sweep flattened hands an inch from his body from head to toe three times, shaking my hands after each repetition. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Just a bit of clean up. Removing any remnants of negative energy that the work flushed out. Shaking your hands flicks it out of your own aura.”

“Oh!” I jolt in surprise when I notice bright sparks flying off my fingertips.

Victor gasps and points, coming up onto an elbow. “I’ve _seen_ that before.” His eyes are like saucers.

“Oh?” Hoshi looks up from preparing her crystal, brows raised. “When?”

“When he skates.” His expression is open, guileless, as if what he’s saying isn’t completely preposterous. “Sometimes I think I see colored sparks like that flying off his fingertips. I thought it was a trick of the light.”

I curl my fingers against my chest, staring at him. “Really?”

“It seems to get worse—or brighter—when you’re frustrated or emotional.” His gaze falls soft on my face. “It’s because you’re magic, Yuuri. You’ve always been magic.”

“It’s not,” I sputter, shaking my hands again because suddenly the thought of them striking sparks like a flint and steel makes them _itch._ “It isn’t like that.” I look to Hoshi, who’s studying me in fascination. “Is it?”

Victor presses his lips together, then crams his fist against his mouth, biting down on a knuckle as if trying to hold something back. His eyes are lit up with mirth.

I drop my hands to my sides in exasperation. “Vitya. Don’t say it.”

Hoshi looks back and forth between us, curious. “Say what?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Go ahead,” I sigh. “Get it out of your system.”

Victor, like a cork popping out of a bottle: “You’re a _wizard,_ Yuuri.”

I aim a pained look at Hoshi. “The one and only relatively modern movie I could get him to sit through.”

“Ah.” she smiles, eyes crinkled like they used to when she’d catch Kaida and me at some mischief.

Victor turns over onto his belly at Hoshi’s gesture. “What can I say? I prefer the classics.”

“Mm. Well,” I return to his side, across from Hoshi. “At least they’re talkies.”

“Oooh, you know what that means,” he says gleefully. “We’re having a silent film night in the _very_ near future.”

Laughter bounces off the walls of the studio, then quiets as Hoshi extends her hand, dangling her crystal pendulum over Victor’s upper back, at his heart chakra. She smooths the fingers of her other hand down its chain to steady and still it. And we wait.

“Don’t stare directly at it,” she advises. “Let it do what it’s going to do on its own.”

Of course, now I have to fight _not_ stare at the shiny, angular stone. “Erm, what are we watching for?”

“You’ll see.” A slight smile curls the corner of her mouth.

It doesn’t take long. The pendulum begins swinging in small circles, growing wider and moving faster by the second. Soon it’s swinging merrily, reflecting the cloud-muted light from outside. Startled, I check Hoshi’s hand. It’s perfectly still, and there’s no breeze coming through the window, just faint puffs of rain-soaked air that barely move the leaves on the trees in the garden.

“Can I see?” Victor’s voice is muffled in the hole in the table made to comfortably cradle the face.

“I’ll show you on Yuuri when it’s your turn,” she assures him. “See, Yuuri, how the pendulum swings, wide and rapidly? This chakra is healthy. There may be differences between the front and back aspects, but we’ll work with that later. Today our intention is to play with the energy, get a feel for it.”

We continue moving down Victor’s spine, Hoshi reinforcing what we learned in the written materials we studied earlier about chakras. The pendulum swings in varying degrees, slower, smaller as we work our way down. Finally, when we reach the base of his spine, I frown as the crystal stutters and stalls, as if it doesn’t know which way to go. Or there’s not enough energy emanating from Victor’s base chakra to move it.

My fingers suddenly twitch with the urge to lay my hands just there. “Is that…?”

Hoshi nods. “Not surprising, as this is where the ankylosing spondylitis strikes hardest. This chakra is very drained and weak.” She glances up at me, studying my face. “Is something wrong?”

“Should I…” I wave my hands at his lower back. “I assume this is where Reiki is needed most? I feel like I need to put my hands there.”

Victor goes rigid on the table, lifts his head to look back at us, worry creasing his forehead. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? That’s where you had your hands when you passed out a few days ago.”

“But that won’t happen again, right?” I meet Hoshi’s gaze. “Now that I’m attuned.”

Her eyes light up. “You may feel a significant rush of energy, but if you’re prepared, you should be fine. And I’ll be right here to help if you need it. But something tells me you won’t.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Yuuri…” Victor convulsively reaches out and snags my left hand, clinging, his fingers shaking. I wrap both mine around his. He casts a beseeching look between me and Hoshi. “Will you let Oba-san ground you again? Like you did at the beginning?”

His fear is a living thing zapping my hands, so I relent. “Yes. If it makes you feel better, I’ll do it.”

Placated, he returns to again lie face down. I extricate one hand from his, but he latches on to the other like he never wants to let go. As Hoshi moves behind me again, I incline my head at our joined hands, a silent question. She nods, so I leave my hand where it is and place my free one flat on that spot on his lower back. And I wait.

At first, nothing happens.

Then I notice a light sweat has broken out all over my skin. My body seems to be heating from the inside out, and there’s a rushing-water sensation running from the crown of my head, through my core, down my arms and out my hands. Barely felt at first, but growing stronger, as if some cosmic gatekeeper is gradually turning on a tap.

“Oh,” Victor murmurs, his fingers curling tighter around mine.

“Remember to ground yourself, Yuuri,” says Hoshi, and I instantly re-envision those roots extending from my feet into the earth. In my mind, I make them bigger, stronger, wrap them around my legs, which I plant wide for stability. This time, I am _not_ going down.

When it happens, the _whoosh_ of energy is familiar, but its source is not. Instead of wrenching from deep within me, it’s flowing _through_ me, flooding my body with music and my vision with light.

I throw my head back and _laugh_.

Hoshi giggles in delight, and Victor, muttering something in Russian, releases my hand, his fingers going lax in bliss. I eagerly press both hands to his back, one in front of the other, covering the expanse of muscle, fascia, and bone from side to side. Every trace of tension drains from his body in a long, belly-deep exhale.

My palms are so hot I wonder why they’re not steaming, and a pleasant fire tickles along the backs of my hands.

Sweat pours from my hairline, down the back of my neck. But it’s not the frightening, tearing intensity of before. It’s a waterfall in sunlight, after the spring thaw when meltwater swells every river and stream.

There’s movement in the air near me, and I look up to find someone is standing on the other side of the table, right in front of me, smiling at all three of us. It’s Kaida.

I sway backward in shock, my sock-clad toes digging in to keep my feet planted in place.

“All right?” Hoshi’s hands tighten on my shoulders.

“I’m okay,” I assure her, breathless. “I’m okay. It’s just…a lot.”

Kaida grins mischievously, bringing a finger to her lips as if to say _shhh_. Then, as the surge in Reiki energy begins its natural ebb, she fades away with a final wink.

I take a step back finally, letting my hands slide free, looking down at myself to make sure my body hasn’t spontaneously floated away. “Oh my god, look at me.” I’m soaked in sweat, but this time it feels healthy, cleansing. Not cloying and draining like the other night.

Hoshi quickly grabs a chair and shoves it behind my knees, and I sit down with a thump. Victor lifts his face from the table opening, turning his head to look for me with slightly unfocused eyes. With a small gasp, he starts to get up, but Hoshi is there to press a hand on his upper back, holding him in place.

“Not yet,” she cautions. “Let me take care of Yuuri first, then I’ll help you up. _Slowly_. You just had basically a fire hose of energy running through you, if what I felt was accurate.”

“Yuuri,” he moans softly as Hoshi darts across the room to a small table loaded with snacks and water. “Talk to me. Tell me you’re all right.”

I can’t stop marveling at my hands, wondering how they’re not red or even blistered. They’re pink with heat, still tingling pleasantly. “I’m good, Vitya. More than good.” My mouth stretches wide in a grin I can’t seem to control.

Hoshi appears in front of me, slipping an open bottle of water into my hand. “Drink. Don’t get up until I tell you.” Then she turns to Victor, helping him to slowly sit up, keeping a hand on him as she also plies him with water.

Satisfied neither of is about to float through the window and away into the clouds, she stands back and pats her hands together in glee. “Well! That doesn’t happen very often. But you handled it very well, Yuuri.”

I blink at her, the colors around every living thing within sight fading from my vision. “It isn’t always like that?”

“Oh, no. Not always. The first time can be a bit dramatic but after this your body will know what to expect and channel it more moderately.” I think I hear her mutter “I hope”, but I can’t be sure. My ears still sound like there’s water rushing through them.

A few minutes later, we switch places and Victor takes his turn. Bad as I want to interact, give him feedback about what’s happening under his hands, I somehow blink and find myself curled on my side, covered in a light blanket, the day’s rain-dimmed light fading. Hoshi is nowhere in sight, but Victor sits beside me in one of the straight-backed chairs we’d borrowed from the restaurant, legs crossed, frowning down at his phone.

He’s typing a text with one thumb while the other hand rests on my hip. From what I can see, it’s in French. Which means he must be texting Chris.

At my slight movement, he perks up, expression clearing in a way that tells me he doesn’t want me to know what he’s thinking. He leans over to prop his chin on his hand at the edge of the table, beaming happily at me.

“How did it go?” I clear my sleep-hoarse throat.

“Perfect,” he chirps, bopping the tip of my nose with a long finger. “Nothing so dramatic as you, but I learned a lot. Hoshi had to go, but she asked me to tell you she wants to talk to you later.”

“Okay.” I yawn and stretch, feeling empty of tension in a way I haven’t felt in…forever. Yet humming with a warm energy that’s bumping lazily under my skin like a sleepy bumblebee looking for someplace to land. “Sorry I flaked out on you.”

“ _Vse khorosho_ ,” he murmurs, and my brain automatically translates the familiar phrase, _it’s all right_ . He affectionately ruffles my hair, which is a bit straw-like with dried sweat. “I felt good giving you what _you_ needed, for once.”

“Texting Chris?” I know I’m being nosy, but something doesn’t feel quite right.

“Mm-hmm.” He leans in to dot small kisses on my lips and randomly around my face. “Just telling him about what we did today. He seems interested.” He pulls back, lips pursed a little as if deciding how much to tell me. Then he sighs. "There's also, apparently, rampant speculation online about what's wrong with me. I've been...too focused on other things to pay attention."

I reach out and flick his bangs back from his face so I can see both his eyes. "So your new online stalker is Chris?" I tease, hoping to clear the tension around his eyes.

He chuckles. "Well, it's mostly Phichit. And apparently he and Chris have each other on speed dial and otherwise have no lives of their own, so..."

Sensing he's troubled, at a crossroads, I sit up a little, propping myself on an elbow. "So what's the consensus?"

That gets me an eye roll. "Everything from 'normal aging skater syndrome' to 'imminent death'. In other words, they're putting two and two together and getting seven."

"Sounds about right for the internet." This is why I barely have a social media presence, and what's there is ruled with an iron hand by Phichit. Maybe I should unleash him on Victor's fan base. "So...are you thinking about going public?" I don't even to think about how much more intense the media frenzy will be if he does.

He shrugs. "I don't know. I'd hoped to keep things private until after I retire, but..." He visibly shakes the worry off his face and graces me with a blinding smile. "I don't want to think about it right now. Not after the amazing day we've had."

When Victor leans in to kiss me solidly on the mouth, that lazy buzz under my skin finds a place to land low in my belly. I slide a hand around the back of his head and deepen the contact, opening his mouth by sliding the tip of my tongue along the seam of his lips and dipping inside. 

After several days afraid to spontaneously touch without clear intention, it feels amazing to put my hands on him without fear. Without that lead-weight pull in my gut, the knife-slice searing in my hands.

Victor makes a surprised, pleased sound in his throat, and without breaking contact, clambers onto the table on top of me. It creaks, probably approaching the weight limit it was designed for.

I laugh into the kiss, squirming under his weight. “Door. Locked?”

“ _Nyet_ ,” he answers between open-mouthed kisses. “Wide open.”

“ _Kuso_!” I burst out, pushing at his shoulders, twisting to see if anyone’s passing down the usually deserted hallway. We roll off the table in a tangle of arms and legs, our athletic reflexes narrowly saving us from landing on the floor in a heap. Victor, still laughing, backs me up against the nearest wall with a full-on assault of hands and kisses.

Somehow, I manage to wiggle out from underneath him, grab his hand, and haul him behind me making for our room, praying we don’t meet anyone. Because there’s no way our thin, cotton jinbei are going to hide the signs of our speeding-freight-train arousal. Victor, still laughing as if he couldn’t stop under threat of gunpoint, stumbles once, then digs in his heels so abruptly he jerks me backward like I’ve been clotheslined. I spin and catch his shoulders, frown because he’s bent over and groaning in what sounds like agony.

“Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

“Yuuri,” he moans, half doubled over. “In this condition I can barely walk, much less _sprint_.” His accent is thick as borscht, his face an amusing mixture of passion and discomfort as he palms himself through his pants, supporting himself with the other on the wall.

Laughing so hard I’m almost crying, I wedge my own throbbing body under his arm and set off toward our bedroom.

Victor is still, somehow, managing to land desperate kisses on my neck. “Is it always going to be like this? After...we do the Reiki thing?”

I make a detour into our small bathroom, the two remaining logical cells left in my brain telling me the sound of the shower might— _might_ —mask some of the noise we’re about to make. I slam the door after us and lock it.

“No idea,” I mumble between gropes, gasps, and grabs for clothing. “I hope so.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (Via Google translate, all mistakes my own)  
> Butsudan: Buddhist altar  
> Moye solntse (мое солнце) - my sun  
> Vse khorosho (Все хорошо): It’s all right  
> Arigato: Thank you  
> Dōitashimashite: You’re welcome
> 
> Thus ends a much-needed chapter of happy feels and fluff. Thank you for all the comments in kudos!
> 
> Arigato to netsirhc and Melissa Combs for beta-ing!
> 
> Notes:  
> The statue next to Kaida’s photo is Kuan Yin (aka Kwan Yin, Quan Yin or Guanyin), Buddhist deity of mercy and compassion. Her ancient name means “She Who Hears the Cry of the World”.
> 
> Kaida’s name means “little dragon”.
> 
> Reiki does not have this...er...effect...on everyone. Just these two knuckleheads. Apparently.  
> * * *  
> Next time: Victor gets some disturbing news; rumors fly about Victor’s condition; Victor and Yuuri return to Saint Petersburg; and Victor’s first test of the season happens much sooner than expected.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait for this chapter. I was swamped with freelance work for a while. Your reward is an extra-long chapter! You're welcome! I thought about splitting it up but...nah. :)
> 
> Thanks to Melissa Combs (aka the Continuity Goddess) for beta reading!

_Never fear being alone. Because you never are._ _  
_ ~Rod McKuen, poet  
  
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**_Victor - dawn_ **

I confess I’m obsessed with watching Yuuri. You could say it lured me across a continent to do it full time. Especially early mornings. There’s something precious about his body, loose and relaxed, his face smooth, brow unmarred by furrows of concentration or self-doubt.

The first time he awakened to find me looming over him, he was so startled he fell out of bed. Now he’s more likely to roll his eyes, mumble something that sounds like “go away” in any language, and go back to sleep.

He’s on his side, facing away from me. After spending a few minutes watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, I prop myself on an elbow and scoot closer to see past the curve of his cheek. His body radiates heat, contrasting with the cool, early morning air wafting through the open window above our heads. It raises goose bumps on my bare shoulders and arms, but I resist the urge to press against his back. My chilly skin would not be a welcome wake-up call.

There’s a lock of messy black hair caught in the corner of his eye. Unable to resist, I lean over and delicately pluck it free.

The rhythm of his breath changes, and before I can move my hand away, his own snakes up to catch it and pull my arm down and around his waist. My squawk of surprise is muffled in the back of his neck.

“Quit it,” he mumbles, but there’s a smile in his voice. Then, running warm fingers up my arm, he flips over to face me and pulls the blankets up to both our chins, wiggling his toes into Makkachin’s fur next to mine. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m Russian,” I say, letting my native accent roll the word into a pretzel. “Cold is my natural habitat.” I tuck his shaggy head under my chin with a contented sigh, drinking him in as much as I can. These sleepy morning cuddles will have to last me all day; he’ll be with Oba-san Hoshi taking a crash course in second-level Reiki. Without me.

Yuuri’s hand travels down my back to settle at the base of my spine, where his palm quickly grows hot. I silently bite my lip, reminding myself this isn’t a bad thing any more. The healing heat flowing from his hand isn’t draining him. I flatten my own hands against his skin, frowning a little because I don’t feel what I think I’m supposed to be feeling.

Another confession: I didn’t tell Yuuri the whole truth about my Reiki training with Hoshi after he fell asleep on the massage table. My hands had never heated up like his. They sort of tingled, but I never felt the heady rush of energy rivering through my body the way it poured through him.

_“Try not to worry about it, Vitya-chan. Rest assured, something is happening. Your experience is simply more subtle than Yuuri’s. Relax and trust. It will come. Remember your lessons.”_

Yuuri sighs in contentment and snuggles closer. “That feels good,” he whispers. “Thanks.”

 _For what?_ I frown down at him in confusion. Surely he’s just trying to humor me.

He pulls back a little to scan my face. “How are you feeling?”

I laugh. “I’ll let you know once I start moving.” Over the past months, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve awakened and lay in bed, planning a busy day, only to sharply scale back those plans once my feet hit the floor. And the first few items on the list leave me cross-eyed with fatigue. Successful treatment or not, this disease manages to let me know on a daily basis that it can smack me down any time it wants.

Yuur’s smile doesn’t quite cover the worry in his eyes, and he lifts his hand off my back to push my hair off my forehead and out of my eyes. His glasses resting on the bedside table, his gaze is a little unfocused as it travels from my face and down my arm, across my chest.

His smile widens a little, touched in wonder. “Your colors are happy.”

“Hm?”

He flushes, as if he hadn’t intended to say it out loud. “I, uh…I didn’t tell you before, but when I gave you Reiki after the attunement, I started seeing. Um. Colors. Around…everything. Living things.” He looks up to meet my startled gaze. “You.”

“Ah.” It comes out more like breath than a word. I caress his heated cheek. “What color am I?”

Those amber-brown eyes trace my outline again. “Lots of pink and purple. With…” His brow forms a tiny crease. “Some smudges in it. I don’t know what that means, but…” He shrugs. “It looks happy.”

“Good.” I pull him close to me again. “Because I am. Happy. ” _And I will stay that way_ , I vow fiercely as I plant a kiss on his forehead. I raise my head a couple inches to get a look at Yuuri’s phone on his bedside table. Fold him close in my arms, where he utters a muffled _mph_. “It’ll be time to get up soon. Oba-san wanted you at her house early.”

His fingers flex against my skin. “Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

I push him away from me far enough to look him in the eye. “You’re going. Oba-san said—”

Yuuri frowns. “I know what she said. But…without you?”

My train of thought jolts to a stop. “What?”

A sigh heavy with trepidation. “Since your diagnosis…well, before that. Since you first came to Hasetsu. We’ve taken every step of this journey together. Doing this without you feels…wrong. Somehow.”

Oh, god. My Yuuri is going to burst my heart. I press my forehead to his, cradling his face in my hands. “I’ll be right behind you,” I whisper. “In a few months, I’ll be ready for the next level. I want this for you. I want you to be safe.”

“ _Be patient, Vitya-chan_ ,” Hoshi had said. “ _I want you to practice at level one for at least six months. A year would be better. I’m only advancing Yuuri now because as an empath, he needs the next level’s tools for his own protection_.”

I’d had to clamp down hard on my automatic protest to Hoshi’s words. If there was more to learn, I wanted to learn it. All of it. All the levels. Inhale it, devour it, master it like I mastered all five quads. Until Hoshi had laid some cold, hard reality at my feet.

“ _You must go slowly. Your body is already fighting a battle. Over the next few days, you may—no, you_ will _—feel it escalate. Physically, and maybe mentally and emotionally, as Reiki digs up present and past hurts that need healing. And—”_ Her voice had dropped to a whisper as she leaned in closer, taking my clenched fists in her hands. _“This will go double for Yuuri when he takes the next attunement. Afterward, he will need your care_.”

Given a task, a mission—for Yuuri—I’d forced myself to smile and nod.

Now, his troubled face only inches from mine, I give him that same smile. Then swoop in for a quick kiss to his soft lips before he can study it too closely.

“Do this for me,” I murmur against those lips. “For your family. Especially yourself. We all want you safe.” I squeeze my eyes tight against the memory of Hiroko holding me up during the long night of Yuuri’s crisis. Toshiya’s steady strength. Mari’s quiet support. Yuuri’s too-still body.

“Okay,” Yuuri answers, then plants soft kisses to my lips, my eyelids, my forehead. His arms slide around me, pulling me in. His legs tangle with mine. His voice drops an octave. “How much time do we have?”

I duck my head and rub my mouth along the underside of his unshaven jaw, uncaring that it’s going to redden my face. “Enough to... _poluchu bystry seks_.”

Yuuri laughs, pulling his loose sleep shirt over his head in a quick, one-handed motion. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

I wriggle out of my underwear and roll Yuuri to his back, craning my neck toward Yuuri’s phone. “Hey, Google…translate _poluchu bystry seks_ , please. ”

“ _Kuso_!” Yuuri twists under me to grab for and mute his phone before it announces to the whole house through paper-thin walls that we’re about to have a morning quickie. “Damn it, Vitya…”

I dive down under the covers, vowing that next time we come to Hasetsu, we’re renting our own place. With soundproof walls.

Makkachin huffs out an aggravated grumble, vacates the bed, and trots down the corridor in search of a place to sleep that isn’t shaking with laughter.

* * *

**_Victor – midday_ **

Something within me feels…cracked open. Spilled out. Something I can’t see with my eyes, but my hands twitch with the urge to gather up the mess and stuff it back inside where it was once shut up tight. Out of sight, out of mind.

Emotional entrails. 

_Iisus_. Where did that come from? I shudder and push the mental image away.

I blink and wonder how long I’ve been staring at my empty bowls in the small family dining room, resisting the overwhelming urge to throw myself down on the vacant cushion next to me. The one where Yuuri usually sits, and leans against me when we have the room to ourselves.

I laugh at myself. There’s no point in indulging my inner drama queen when there’s no audience around to appreciate it. Not even Makkachin, who, after last year’s attack of gluttony nearly took her life, is banished from all dining/kitchen areas. There are even signs posted in various areas of the onsen admonishing guests, _Inu ni esa o yaranaide kudasai._

I’d encouraged Yuuri to take the next step of training with Hoshi without me at his side. But it’s left me with a hollow space inside, a broken compass, its needle quivering, swinging wildly in search of its missing true north.

Hoshi wasn’t wrong about the aftermath of the Reiki attunement. Everywhere I’ve ever had an injury—even the ones I’d forgotten—are sending up flares. My ankle. Knee. Lower back. Wrists and fingers repeatedly jammed over the years. Elbows that have absorbed the impact of fall after fall. Various pulled and strained muscles. Even my jaw, which was sore for weeks after my face hit the ice…when I was _twelve_.

Without warning, the door leading to the kitchen bursts open and Hiroko hurries in. I don’t have to paste a false smile on my face for her. It comes naturally.

I quickly bow over my empty dishes. “ _Gochisousama_ , Ka-san.” She giggles when I don’t quite manage to suppress a belch. Her small, strong hand alights on my shoulder and I look up to find her settling to her knees at my side. For a long moment her eyes search my face, much longer than is customarily considered polite.

It doesn’t surprise me, though, this directness. Not after the night she literally held me up during Yuuri’s crisis. She wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t have something to say.

I try not to squirm under her tender scrutiny.

She smiles, and the fingers on my shoulder squeeze before dropping away to fold on her lap. “No worry, Vic-chan,” she says gently in her improving English. “Yuuri will come back to you.”

It takes me a second to figure out what she’s really trying to say. _Yuuri’s love for you will not be changed by this. He will not leave you behind._ I lean over and for a long moment rest my forehead on her shoulder. Her arm comes up automatically around my upper back, much the same as when I broke down, sitting by Yuuri’s feet while he’d lay on our bed half-conscious.

That broken place inside me leaks, and I try to be discreet about dabbing my damp eyes as I sit up and shift to face her. I search the limited language between us for the right words.

“Every time I skate, I am someone…something new. On the… _sotodzura?”_ I gesture, indicating my outer surface. “Outside. But this…what Oba-san taught us…” I press both hands to my torso, somewhere in the vicinity of my solar plexus, precisely where it feels the most lost. The most empty. “The change is in here. _Fukai_. Deeper.”

Her gaze holds steady, waiting. And suddenly I’m pouring out a torrent of disjointed thoughts in English, in Russian. The occasional Japanese word which, from Hiroko’s expression, I’m probably pronouncing so poorly it’s unintelligible. My love for Yuuri, my hopes for him, for us, what he means to me, my fear of what this diagnosis is going to do to us. No power on this earth can shut the word flood off, nor is there any hope that Hiroko understands a word I’m saying. But her bright eyes never leave my face.

When my babbling peters out into wordless flailing, she captures both my waving hands in hers. “Not change,” she says firmly. “Not here.” She places a hand over my heart. “Not for Yuuri.”

I gape at her, lump in my throat. Whatever nonsense her ears heard, her mother’s heart translated it. That broken place in me wants to weep for the mother I barely remember, but then, it occurs to me, I don’t have to. Hiroko has slipped into that place as easily as if she was made to fit it. Heal it.

I find myself laughing, instead. “Okay,” I manage. “Okay.”

With a final squeeze, she releases me and rises to her knees to start efficiently gathering my empty dishes. “You…” she glances down at the black tights and dance shoes I’m already wearing. “Barē today?”

“ _Hai_ ,” I reply, picking up my half-empty tea cup to sip. “Barre exercise, _onsen_ soak, walk Makka.” I mime typing on my laptop. “Business. _Bijinesu_?” She nods in understanding. Yuuri had sternly directed me not to overdo it today, so save energy for my virtual training session with Yakov later tonight. So I won’t be lacing up my skates until after sundown.

Hiroko’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she rises to her feet, dishes balanced artfully in one hand, other hand planted on her ample hip. “Help Mari fold towel.”

I choke on another sip of tea. “No. _No_.” I wave my free hand in emphatic denial. “Mari-chan refolds everything behind my back. I make more work.” I look up hopefully. “Maybe I can help wash dishes?”

Hiroko tries and fails to hide her horror. She points a finger at me. “No kitchen.”

I give her a totally-not-serious pout. “One plate. It was _one_ plate.” And, to be completely honest, Yuuri and I were horsing around.

She gives me the once-over with a jaundiced eye. “You help. Eat more.”

I hear: _Help me to not worry so much._

It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s commented on my weight. Or lack thereof. When Yuuri runs a hand over my back, his fingers pause on every bone he perceives as too prominent. At a photo shoot days before we’d left for Japan, the stylist had cooed over the way the designer clothes draped artfully over my frankly bony frame. _I didn’t think you could be any more perfect for modeling, Mr. Nikiforov. I was wrong._

I’ve never held my weight easily. Until I came of age, Yakov ruled my diet with an iron hand; after that rein slipped from his fingers, he grumbled the only decent meal I got was my annual birthday dinner during Russian Nationals. At least until Yuuri entered my life.

This disease, along with the appetite-flattening effect of my meds, has changed so much about the way I’m accustomed to how my body functions. Perhaps when I return to Russia, I’ll sit down with the Russian team’s nutritionist. Lighter body weight may be an advantage in competitions, but strength and stamina I cannot afford to lose.

I duck my head, an almost exact copy of Yuuri’s shy nod. “ _Hai_ , Ka-san. I will try.”

She smiles softly and playfully pokes me in the ribs. “Do.” She spins on her heel and speed-walks back through the kitchen door.

For several seconds that seem to stretch into eternity, I can’t take a breath.

Her blunt fingertip might as well have been the point of an ice pick. A pinpoint of fiery pain stabs at the spot she touched. Like an explosion in slow motion, it blooms and intensifies until it seems to bleed out from under the hand I instinctively press to it.

What fresh hell is this?

Grateful there’s no one else in the room, I prop myself up with my other hand on the table, fighting to keep a groan contained behind my clenched jaw. Any strange noise coming from this room will bring Hiroko running. Just picturing her horror, should she realize she accidently caused me any discomfort, guarantees my silence.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I flatten my palm against the pain and summon the Reiki energy.

Nothing happens. If anything, the pain intensifies. I haven’t been this close to pain-vomiting since my ankle injury.

I close my eyes against a wave of frustration. Anger. Despair.

_Behind your smile, Vitya-chan, I sense deep anger. The Reiki energy will draw it out, maybe over time and in unexpected ways. You must learn to release it._

“Just for today,” I whisper the first line of the mantra Hoshi taught us. “Just for today.” Inhale. Exhale. Let go.

Slowly, ever so slowly—probably without any help from me—the pain ebbs. I take a shaky breath, rise from the table on legs that aren’t rock solid, and head for the studio, where I’ll have the privacy to examine what feels like a very deep bruise on my ribs.

Weird that I don’t remember falling or banging into anything. Makka didn’t step on me jostling for territory in bed, that I recall. Yuuri didn’t throw an elbow in his sleep.

As I pad through the lobby, I spot Makka, who’s entertaining a boy of about three through the window overlooking the onsen’s hot pools. I leave her to her fun; she’ll find me when she’s ready.

I pull out my phone as I trudge up the narrow stairs, checking for any news from Yuuri. I’d promised myself not to badger him all day with pining texts, and now I realize just how often I reach for my phone to share whatever’s rattling around inside my brain at any given moment. He may not respond to every single ping, but just knowing he’s on the other end, smiling at my ramblings, is strangely comforting.

To my surprise, there’s a text from him waiting for me. I chuckle quietly at his selfie, holding up an inch-thick workbook with a what-have-I-gotten-myself-into look on his face. Behind him, slightly out of focus, Hoshi covers her laughing mouth with her hand.

 _Ganbatte_ , I text back, and force myself to put the screen to sleep. Knowing Yuuri and his ferocious focus, he probably won’t text again for a while. And that’s all right, I tell myself.

Once inside the studio, I close the door behind me, and rest my sweaty forehead on the wooden frame, swallowing hard. Slide a hand under my arm to test the spot where the pain bomb went off.

I move to the mirrored wall, raise my arm, lift my t-shirt to examine the spot. I squint at it in the light filtering through the windows overlooking the garden. There’s no mark.

I lightly trace the spot. It’s tender, like there should be a bruise, but there’s nothing. Just pale, northern Russian skin. I walk my fingers along and between my ribs, finding more spots just like it all around my rib cage, even the edges of my sternum. Light brushes elicit a sharp inhale, and a firmer tap has me clenching my jaw and stifling a groan while the pain rises, crests, and fades.

I pull my shirt back down and lean closer to the mirror. And I wince.

Given the upheaval of the past few days, my focus on Yuuri’s wellbeing, I’ve barely touched the skin and hair care products crowding the countertop in our small bathroom. Sunburn from our beach walk still reddens my peeling nose. Stubble smudges my jawline with light charcoal. And my hair…wow. Just wow. Hasetsu’s summer humidity and the onsen’s mineral-laden water amps up its tendency to wing out in wholly unflattering directions.

I look like I’ve been on a weekend bar hop with Chris, without actually having had any fun.

On the upside, the prednisone puffiness is gone, and my cheekbones are back on the job. Yet I close my eyes briefly against the sight of too many strands of silver dusting the shoulders of my dark t-shirt. Dr. Sorokina warned me hair loss is a real possibility, due to the disease itself and the meds’ side effects. I’d hoped, somehow, the universe wouldn’t heap that particular insult upon injury. I resist the panicky urge to run my fingers through it in search of bald spots.

 _This,_ I think to myself, staring my face in the mirror. _This is what it looks like to live with a monster inside you._

“Just for today,” I whisper at my reflection. “Just for today.” Inhale. Exhale.

Another of Hoshi’s admonishments echoes back to me.

_“While Yuuri is with me, I want you to relax. A soak in the onsen will help clear the toxins the attunement flushed out. Drink lots of water, and be mindful of negativity emerging in your thoughts and emotions, as well. Ground yourself and release it. Let it all go.”_

Negativity? Me? I scowl into the mirror. I can’t afford to relax. The countdown to my final season is ticking relentlessly away. My skin is a mess. My _hair_ is falling out. My back, though doing better, still barks at me with every landing. I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.

For a hot second, anger flashes through me. I raise my phone, aim it at the mirror, and snap a picture. I give it a long look. A flat, stark rectangle that looks like it was set to shoot in grey-scale, save for the red rims of my purple-shadowed eyes.

I barely recognize myself.

I could Instagram it. I _should_. Confess the truth to the world, without my trademark smile and smooth skin perfected with a filter. Hell. If I tried to paste on that smile right now, I’d look like something out of a horror movie.

Let them see, I think fiercely. Let _everyone_ see. The pain. The crushing fatigue. The medications I’m pouring into my body to stay on the ice. The despair of that comes with the knowledge that no matter how hard I fight, my life could very well be all downhill from here.

_Just for today, let go of anger._

I tuck my chin and turn away, head for the small fridge in the corner of the room, and dutifully down a bottle of water. Think about what a coward I am as I close the camera app on my phone and connect to the Bluetooth speaker, start up my barre routine music, and return to the mirror.

I blow out a breath, take first position, and begin the routine Lilia drilled into me from the first day I entered her studio, tripping over the feet I hadn’t grown into yet.

Both hands on the barre. First position. Tendu right leg front. Flex ankle and plié.

Yuuri had kissed me goodbye early this morning, his eyes dark with regret for leaving me, and a trace of fear behind his brave smile had almost made me abandon my promise to Hoshi and show up at her house by his side. But I’d given him my best happy face as he’d left me with a caress and a simple checklist of tasks.

_Soak in the onsen. Stretch. Self-Reiki session. Eat. Water. Medicate. Walk Makka. Light jog or borrow Mari’s bike for a ride to wake up the legs. Rest more. Drink more water. Stretch more. Don’t overdo it, you’ve got a video training session with Yakov tonight._

Rise from plié, tendu, back to first position.

I’ve already done almost everything on my to-do list. Mentally I add more tasks, inwardly recoiling at the thought of having nothing to do but miss Yuuri all day. I grip the barre harder to subdue the trembling in my hands.

Tendu right leg to the side, flex and plié. Rise, tendu, close to first.

I’ll be catching up with my agent, my investment broker, my costume designer. Contacting my skate maker to get a fresh mold of my feet for new boots and blades. Technically, I can do all that while resting, right? After this barre exercise, I’ll have time to run through both my programs on the floor and practice adding an element to my jumps--one or both arms raised overhead.

_“As your coach, I forbid you to practice quads while you are in Japan, Vitya. Until you return, work on strategies to make the podium with nothing higher than a triple.”_

Yakov’s parting words to me had made me bristle with annoyance. The old man must have been talking to Yura _find-a-way-to-beat-me-without-a-quad_ Plisetsky.

Damn it.

_Just for today…_

Breathe. Let go.

Oddly, it’s a little easier this time. The music, the movement, the Reiki Yuuri had given me, the session I’d given myself during my onsen soak, all doing their work.

Tendu left leg to the front. Stop. Return to first and start again. Turn that damned left leg _out_. Repeat tendu front. Flex and plié.

I’ve done the math over and over again, in my head, on paper, and on the studio floor. Squeezing every extra fraction of a GOE point out of every element while following the new ISU guidelines that prevent skaters from backloading the last half of their programs with the majority of their jumps. Which is basically how Yura edged out Yuuri in last year’s Grand Prix Final. I still haven’t forgiven myself for failing to foresee that possibility.

“Your left leg turnout is shit, Nikiforov.”

Startled out of my reverie, I glance up into the mirror to meet a pair of brown eyes sparkling with humor under a messy bun, a feminine mouth turned up in a smirk.

“Minako-sensei!” I wheel around and drop her a quick bow of respect. “ _Kon’nichiwa_.It’s good to see you.”

“ _Genkidesu_ ,” she replies with a quick bow. She slips off her ankle boots, thunks her giant purse next to them, and glides smoothly across the floor, raising a finger and twirling it at me. “Turn around and get back in position. Let’s work on that leg.”

Obediently I do as I’m told as she joins me at the barre, and together we begin again, moving in tandem to the music guiding our rhythm.

“I hear your studio is full of new young dancers. Congratulations,” I offer, trying not to break into a sweat under her watchful eye. For all she’s half my size, and a skating _otaku_ of the first order, she is fully capable of Lilia-level intimidation in the studio.

“I’m just back from taking some of them to a competition. I deserved a day off after dealing with all that teen angst.” She shudders, and I laugh. “Besides,” she continues while giving me an obvious side eye, “Yuuri asked me to check on you while he’s away today.”

My plié wobbles a little. “He did?”

She sniffs. “I’m sure it’s because he knows you’ll be slacking without proper supervision. Probably spending the day lolling on the beach with Makka and stuffing yourself with street food.” Another side eye. “Thought it looks like a few dozen _taiyaki_ wouldn’t kill you.”

Makka chooses that moment to wander into the studio, take one look at Minako, and nearly knock her down in a grand, giant-poodle greeting. Minako winds up sitting on the floor, cooing Japanese baby talk and fluffing Makka’s ears.

I grin and shake my head as I watch my dog ignore me completely. “So Yuuri told you what he’s doing today?”

“Oh yes. I’ve been to Hoshi many times for various aches and pains.” She levers herself off the floor, gently shooing Makka toward her cushion in the corner, and resumes our exercise routine at my side. “It’s good to see Yuuri taking an interest.”

I meet her assessing gaze in the mirror. “You never…?”

She snorts. “Do I _look_ like someone you’d run to for that woo woo stuff?”

“Uh…probably not.” I smirk through my next demi-plié.

“Uh huh. Only Yuuri would dare to annoy me outside of work hours.”

I frown. “When did he do that?”

She gives me an odd look. “You didn’t know? The night before the Hot Springs on Ice competition at Ice Castle last year. He came to me for help to work up a completely different approach to his _Eros_ program.”

I go still. Stunned. So _that’s_ what had seemed different between our final practice run and the moment he’d stepped onto the ice the next day. “What did you teach him?”

The smirk is back. “How to seduce you.” _Dumbass_ is implied. “Watch that leg.”

“ _Fuck_ the leg.” I grip the barre more tightly, shake my head in frustration because I’d blurted in Russian. More carefully, “What are you talking about?”

She halts, wiping a faint glow of sweat from her forehead. “He wanted to switch his role from a male gigolo to a sensual, irresistible woman.”

Oh my _god_. “How did I not know this?”

She crosses her arms. “Did you ever ask?” She looks me up and down. “Hmm. No. My guess is you patted yourself on the back for being a great coach and went on your merry way.”

Ouch. I drop my head backward and exhale noisily at the ceiling. Then meekly return to position at the barre. In my mind’s eye, Yakov is whacking me upside the head, and well deserved.

“So what’s going on with this leg?” Minako moves to stand behind me, studying the quality and precision of my movements. At my awkward pause, she continues more softly. “Yuuri told me a little of your issues. And I once choreographed a wheelchair duet for him and Kaida.”

Ah. At least I’m saved from repeating what, to me, is becoming a long and tedious story. “Among other things, the disease is attacking my sacro-iliac joints at the base of my spine, especially on the left side. The medications I’m taking are doing the job, so the pain is much better, the inflammation is reduced. But,” I pause to slowly force my left leg into a full turnout, “the leg just doesn’t want to turn all the way anymore. I have to really push hard to get it there. And make it stay.” I demonstrate with a grunt of effort.

She sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Don’t do that if it hurts you. Ease into it.”

“It doesn’t hurt. Well,” I concede, “mot a lot. But like I said, it takes more effort now.” _How the hell am I going to do a spread eagle in competition if I can’t fix this?_

She nods. “All right. At the risk of stepping on Lilia’s toes, I’d advise you to take more time to achieve the correct position. _Slowly_.” She repeats sternly. She returns to my side and we continue the routine together.

Presently: “Yuuri tells me you plan to repeat your programs from your last competitive season,” she says as we turn to the side, raise one arm over our heads, and bend at the waist. “Keep your upper body engaged.”

I suppress a grimace and adjust my stance. “I do. With new music, but essentially the same choreography.” Straighten, lift up on the toes.

“What about your exhibition piece?”

“My…”

“For the post-competition galas.” I turn to meet her gaze in the mirror. She stares at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “You can’t tell me your grand comeback plan doesn’t include a few trips to the podium.”

I sigh. Brain fog. It’s a thing.

“I guess…I could pull out a gala program from the past.” Inwardly I cringe at the prospect of boring my audience with yet another repeat.

Minako hums a non-committal sound. “This is to be your last season, yes?”

Just hearing it said out loud thumps like a lead weight dropped to the bottom of my gut. “My last.”

We lapse into contemplative silence as we complete the first, easiest section of the barre routine. Ideas swirl in my head. Memories. They begin to coalesce into colors. Shapes. A blue rose crown. A lilac costume. My favorite snippets of music from past programs.

“What’s your choreographer fee, sensei?”

“You can’t afford me.” Minako grins cheekily back at me.

I laugh, but she’s right. The dance foundation she built under Yuuri’s career is priceless.

“I’ve got a couple hours before the evening class,” she offers. “You want to work on it?”

I hesitate. It would be a risk, pouring energy into a choreographic brainstorming session with Minako when I’ve got training with Yakov in a few hours. I could do it, Yuuri would never know. As long as Minako doesn’t rat me out. I shake my head. Who am I kidding? Yuuri will take one look at me and know I’ve pushed myself too far. And I’d waste Yakov’s time because I’m too tired to do anything but pop doubles and singles. 

I shift awkwardly, feeling like I don’t fit into my own body any more. Like the drive within me is too much, something my bones, my muscles, my _will_ can’t make happen.

“Er…” I begin. “I think I can manage some dancing, but I have to save energy for training later tonight. So maybe...go through some old videos with me and walk through some transitions?”

I release a sigh of relief when Minako doesn’t look at me like I’ve grown two heads. Only nods and smiles with a matter-of-fact, “Let’s get to work.”

I grab my phone, pull up YouTube videos of my old programs, settle down to stretch with Minako on the yoga mats, and start stitching ideas together. 

* * *

**_Victor - after sundown_ **

“Need me to stay and work the camera?”

Takeshi Nishigori’s heavily accented English brings me up from my warm-up stretch on the Ice Castle’s changing area floor. I lean back on my palms and shake my head. “Yuuri’s on his way. But _arigato_.”

Yuuri’s session with Hoshi went longer than expected, but he’s using the run from her house to the rink as his warm-up. My video session with Yakov begins in just over an hour.

Takeshi nods and makes to turn away, then halts as if he’s remembered something. He digs in his pocket and comes up with a key, dangling from a key chain. Lifting his chin to warn me, he tosses it in my direction. I straighten quickly and catch it one-handed, and turn it over in my fingers. One side of the painted wooden keychain is a snowflake, the other side, a cartoony but unmistakable portrait of Makkachin. I glance up at Takeshi, brow raised in question.

He grins. “Your key. Loop painted it. You…” he gestures, “You keep. Lock up when you go home.”

 _Home_. I close my fingers around the key, stunned and humbled. “I will.” I start to thank him again, but words don’t come. I can only manage a little wave as he disappears, then the echo of the heavy employee entrance door clunks shut a minute later, leaving me alone in the rink’s cavernous silence.

Taking a bracing breath, I lean over to grab my skate bag and tuck the key away. Yuuri’s backpack, which I’d brought with me from the onsen when he ran late, leans next to it against the bench. He probably isn’t aware that I know exactly where he keeps his key. I’ve seen him take it out in times of stress and rub it between his fingers like a talisman. A magic lamp. I shake my head. If I’m Yuuri’s genie, he got the poor end of the deal.

_Stop it._

I take a cleansing breath as I pick up my tablet and connect to the video chat session we’ll be using. It’s a good hour early, but I want to make sure everything’s working like it should. Yakov has little enough patience for technology as it is. So I’m a little startled when his craggy face pops up on the screen, precisely at the moment my phone rings. The dramatic, classical music ringtone and a swift look at the caller ID sends my brows upward. Georgi?

“Vitya,” Yakov barks, “Can you hear me? If that’s Gosha calling your phone, don’t answer it.”

Confused, I set the phone down and turn the tablet camera so he can see my face. “Why shouldn’t I—”

“Call him back later. It’s very important I talk to you first.”

The underlying anxiety in his tone brings me up short. I swipe the call to voicemail, and turn back to Yakov. “What is it?”

Relief washes across his face, and he drags a hand down from forehead to chin, as if to shore himself up. “He’s been recalled.”

“Gosha? For what? He’s training for the pro circuit—”

“The Federation wants him back in time for the Grand Prix series. Possibly the Olympics.”

I lever myself up from the floor and begin to pace, tablet in hand, confusion warring with dread in my stomach. A flood of stress adrenaline threatens to cramp my legs, and my agitated strides turn into careful, calf-stretching lunges. “And the reason for this is…” I think I know, but I want to hear the words.

“There are doubts. About…” he heaves out a sigh. “Your ability to compete at the same level you did before. You’ve skipped your usual off-season ice show appearances…”

“I was on _crutches_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“I know that. Also, some unretouched photos and sneaked behind-the-scenes shots from your most recent fashion shoot were leaked. Rumors are spreading that you are not well, and they’re gaining traction.”

For a second, my vanity stings. I hadn’t looked _that_ bad. I detour to the bench and slide my phone closer to me, poking at it with my free hand. “No one is supposed to know anything about that.”

“I know, Vitya. I know.” He squints at me. “Are you checking social media?”

I hastily slide my phone away. “No.”

He rolls his eyes and continues, “Your health is your own business, and despite everything, I believe you still have one good season left in you. Maybe more, if we stay on top of the symptoms. If that’s what you want.”

 _We_. I can’t help a twitch of my lips at that. But I shove a hand through my hair, forgetting I’d vowed not to pull at it. “But the Federation thinks otherwise.”

“They are either listening to the rumor mill, or they have gained access to what should be private information.”

A frozen ball forms in my stomach. “About me. About this…disease.”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” He sighs, his expression softening. “I didn’t want you to find out from Gosha. Or for you to be unpleasantly surprised when you return and find him back at the rink.”

The frozen ball grows spikes. “He’s training with _us_?” Talk about rubbing salt into the wound. Not just bringing back my closest competitor, but throwing us back in the same training rink.

Yakov’s jaw visibly tightens. “It…wouldn’t have been my choice. He has a new coach, but he’ll be based here.”

Ah. The Federation isn’t just hedging its bets for gold medals. It’s grinding some kind of axe. An idea occurs to me, and I frown because it feels like it’s something I should have thought of before. That the Federation is unhappy enough I took a year off to coach Yuuri to punish me for it. Maybe, if I’d coached a Russian, I might have been forgiven.

“I need to talk to Gosha.”

Yakov nods. “This is probably why he was calling. I just wanted to get to you first.”

Georgi, who doesn't possess a mean bone in his body, had probably been calling to tell me himself. I prop my elbows on my knees as I stare bleakly at Yakov’s image. I note the time on the upper corner of the screen. Forty-five minutes. “Uh…all right. Thank you,” I half babble. “Yuuri is on his way over…he had…another thing to do, but…he’ll be here to handle video. Shortly.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Yakov says gently, then his brows draw down. “Keep your composure, Vitya. Shake this off, and log back in on time and ready to work.”

I latch onto his coach-voice like a lifeline, give him my best fake smile. “ _Da, ser_.” I tap to put him on hold, and place the tablet carefully on the bench beside me.

Then I get up and begin to walk in circles, and I dig my knuckles into the small of my back, which is aching and threatening to spasm.

This is it? After literally a lifetime of throwing myself body and soul into bringing home medals for mother Russia, this is the thanks I get? A not-so-subtle threat that I’ll be cast aside at the first sign of weakness? No faith that I can push myself through one more season and win? A figurative spanking for not toeing the Federation line?

I wind up next to the rink, palms braced on the barrier, head down between my arms in a low-back stretch. The muscles eased, I straighten and gaze across the newly resurfaced ice gleaming white under the glaring overhead lights. The ice. My home for as long as I can remember. Who are they to take it away from me, when I have more to give? Yes, my body is fighting me, but _I am not done._

Anger pours into the voids in my soul that the Reiki attunement exposed. I breathe hard, trying to let go of it. Not so long ago, I’d let my anger take control and nearly broke my ankle.

 _Anger is a poison that hurts only you_. Hoshi’s gentle words climb and sit on the wall of my rage. Cooling it. Melting it into something else that feels weirdly like...grief.

I shake my head and push away from the barrier to pace aimlessly through the empty facility, swiping at humiliatingly damp eyes. _Is it time for me to quit? To let go of this one last dream I had for myself? That Yuuri had for me?_

Yuuri. I need his arms holding me up, his voice in my ear, however unsteady or halting his words might be. 

My phone dings with a reminder that Georgi left a voicemail. He doesn’t deserve to be left hanging. None of this is his fault. In fact, I can almost predict, right down to every last intimidation and thinly veiled threat, what the Federation said to him.

I veer off to return to the changing area, plant myself on a bench, and dig into my duffel for the box of supplies to prepare my feet for skating. Then I put my phone on speaker and tap the screen to return Georgi’s call. 

He’s already crying when he picks up on the first ring. All I have to do, as I apply the various wraps and pads to my pressure points, is smile fondly, make soothing noises, and assure him there’s nothing to forgive.

* * *

According to my locator app, Yuuri should be here any minute. 

I’m standing on skate-guarded blades at the Ice Castle’s glass front doors, cupping my hands around my face to see past my reflection. I can’t see very far. I push my way through the door into the night air, remembering at the last moment to catch it and set it so it doesn’t lock behind me.

It’s not particularly cool, but the ocean damp combined with the sweat from my warmup laps send a shiver across my skin. I wrap my arms around myself and peer out into the humid night. From the top landing there’s a view of the bridge we cross every day on our way to the rink. It’s shrouded in evening fog, its double row of street lamps little more than blurry orbs of light.

I can just make out a figure moving through the mist. A man, running. His shape, the way his body moves, the rhythm of feet slapping on pavement, are distinctly Yuuri. But something is different. He’s carrying something long and slender across his back. I squint into the darkness, my heart rate picking up speed.

Yuuri is coming for me, a Japanese sword across his back, racing through the night like a warrior from an epic tale.

A sound that’s half sob, half surprised thrill, jerks out of me and I take a step forward, only to stop, fingers wrapped tight around my elbows. I shouldn’t risk it on my blades. All I can do is wait and watch and _want_ as Yuuri closes the distance between us.

I lose sight of him as he disappears briefly behind some trees and hedges, but then he’s bounding up the front steps two at a time, close enough now in the outside lights of the rink to see his eyes never leave me.

He doesn’t stop until his arms are wrapped around my waist, his heated body pressed to mine. I snake my arms around him and hold tight, relief almost taking me out at the knees.

“Hey,” is hot on the side of my neck Despite the miles he’s run, he’s barely out of breath. My strong Yuuri. 

I try for a care-free laugh. I don’t want him to know what a mess I am, despite the news I’ll have to share with him. “You ran so late. I was wondering if everything was okay.” I can’t control the slight wobble in my voice, and one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of my head.

His chest jumps against mine on a laugh. “I...have a lot to process with a week’s worth of training compressed into one day. But I’m fine. It’ll be fine.” 

I decide that now is not the time to remark that he sounds like he’s convincing himself as much as me. If level one is turning my mind and emotions inside out, I can only imagine what’s going on inside that giant heart of his.

He leans back and brushes fingertips under my eyes, and I make an irritated sound when they come away wet. “I knew it,” he whispers. “I had a feeling all day that something wasn’t right.” He frowns, rubbing his hands up and down my arms. “You’re shaking. Let’s get you inside, okay?”

As if he thinks I need support, he hooks a thumb under the strap across his chest to remove the sword, and fits himself under one of my arms and leads me back toward the front doors.

“What’s with the sharp, stabby thing?” I indicate the sheathed katana.

“Oh. Uh…several years ago, Minako choreographed a dance for me and Kaida in her wheelchair. I danced with the sword and gave it to her at the end. Hoshi gave it back to me tonight.” He chuckles softly. “Don’t worry, it’s not sharp.”

We maneuver through the door, a little awkwardly since neither of us is willing to break contact. I almost fall over my own feet, imagining Yuuri dancing with tempered steel whirling close to vulnerable veins and vital organs. “Tell me there’s a video of this dance.” I manage in a strangled tone as we head for the changing area and settle on the bench.

He laughs. “Mom probably has it somewhere. I think,” he says almost shyly, “I might use it. The sword. For gala performances, maybe. Can you picture it?”

I barely suppress a small noise in my throat, picturing him dancing across the ice in full costume, sword flashing under the lights. “I,” I croak and clear my throat. “I can.”

Grabbing my team Russia jacket, he throws it over my shoulders. I shrug it off, wondering why everyone seems compelled to treat me like a fragile flower. “I’m not cold. I’m just…” He digs in his backpack and hands me a bottle of water. “Annoyed.” 

He raises a brow as he twists off the cap on his own bottle and drinks deeply.

I study the bottle in my hands. “How did you know?”

Yuuri takes one of my hands in his and huffs out a laugh. “It’s been…an interesting day.” He shakes his head briefly, a wry smile edging his lips. “For one thing, apparently I can see dead people.”

I gasp and turn to look at him. “What?”

“When I’m…” he flaps his hand. “Doing Reiki. At certain times, I see people that aren’t. Um. Here. Anymore.”

“That’s…interesting,” I squeak.

“And, when I was learning to send Reiki from a distance? I was…” he blushes, “sending it to you, and...”

My heart melts. “Yuuri…”

“Something happened during that session. Oba-san had me use a teddy bear to represent you. And at one point I couldn’t take my hands off your chest. Here.” He indicates a spot on his ribs that precisely matches where Hiroko poked me.

My mouth drops open, and my hand automatically goes to that spot. “I had pain. Here.”

His eyes go wide. “You did? Was it bad? I almost left there to come looking for you…I was afraid something was really wrong.”

I will _not_ tell him Hiroko’s innocent touch triggered it. “Hoshi warned me I might be unusually sore today, and I was. But I’m fine, as you can see. I’m glad she did whatever she had to do to keep you there. Sit on you. Tie you down.”

Yuuri laughs, then lets go of my hand to smooth his down my back, worry pinching the corners of his eyes. “But you’re okay?”

“I’m okay.” And, I realize, I really am. Now that he’s here, I feel everything that was unbalanced within me settling into place. My inner compass finding its fixed point. “I don’t know what this pain was. There’s no mark, no bruise, nothing. But touching it…” I wave off Yuuri’s furrowed brow. “I’ll tell Dr. Sorokina about it when I get back. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Mm,” he says noncommittally, finishing off his water. “Now, what was upsetting you when I got here?” His hand sweeps down my back again, leaving heat in its wake, calming me.

“I had news from Yakov.” I pull in a deep breath and tell him everything. About Georgi’s coming back to ISU competition, the possible reasons why, and finally, spilling out my anger over the Russian Federation’s injustice. By the time I’m finished, I’m angry again, but no longer shaking. No one, especially not the Federation, will intimidate me, ever again.

My tablet dings, indicating my scheduled session with Yakov is ten minutes away.

Yuuri’s fingers close around my arm when I tense my legs to rise from the bench. “Maybe we should postpone the session.”

Irritation shoots through my veins, morphing quickly into a state of mind I remember well, and haven’t felt since the last time I competed. Cold, focused determination. I shake my head vehemently. “No. I don’t have time to postpone anything. If I hesitate, if I hold back, they win. That can’t happen.”

Yuuri searches my face. “Wait. Just for a minute.” He reaches for one of my hands and enfolds it in both of his. His palms, his fingers, seem to ignite, transmitting heat and calm deep into my body. I uncurl my free hand from its fist, and he grabs that one, too.

“Don’t do this to yourself again,” he says softly, “Remember what happened last time you let your fear take over.”

My _fear_? His steady gaze catches mine and holds it. The energy he’s feeding me through his hands fills some of the broken places inside me, like molten gold repairing the cracks in a fragile vessel.

Inhale. Exhale. _Just for today._

I lift one of my hands to cup the side of his face, still flushed from his run. “I won’t be afraid. Not of them. Not of anything, as long as you’re with me.”

A small smile quirks his lips, then he lets me go and scoots down the bench to get his own skates, apparently satisfied I’m in control of myself. The steel in his eyes hardens to match mine. “All right, then. Let me change and get laced up. Let’s do this.” 

* * *

A few minutes later, I’m on the ice. Yuuri shadows me with the tablet, camera app active.

“Are you warmed up? Are you ready for this?”

I pivot backward, building speed with strong, sure, back crossover strokes. “I’ve spent most of the day warming up and staying loose. I’m ready. Just keep the camera on me.”

His only response is to dig in with his blades to keep up with me, but what he wants to say is flashing from his eyes. _Be careful._

I come out of the turn and stroke a few more times, then pivot to my back left inside edge, self-created wind lifting my hair and chilling my skin. I flex my knee, coil the power within my body, and launch.

Quad sal, triple toe, double toe.

I wanted to make that last one a triple, too, but thought it better to finish cleanly rather than badly underrotate. I finish with a sweeping free leg, pointed toe, and fully extended arms, hands soft as if it’s just another day at the barre. The tension that had been building up inside me breaks, and I turn toward the camera, grin, and brush a hand across my shoulder as if to say _no sweat._

Yuuri stops recording, one eyebrow raised. “Didn’t Yakov tell you no quads while we’re in Japan?”

I feign surprise, then wink. “Oops.”

I hold out my hand for the tablet, and he rolls his eyes and gives it to me. A few firm taps and swipes later, the video is on Instagram. Within minutes, if not seconds, everyone will know the Federation’s scheme is a waste of time. Especially Georgi’s. It’s bad enough they’re threatening me. Derailing Georgi’s professional career is just plain vicious.

I will make them regret it.

Yuuri snatches the tablet back from me and looks at it. “What did you just do?”

“Posted it to Insta.” I shake out my right leg. My ankle didn’t like that last landing, but it’ll get over it. The upcoming session with Yakov will focus on reverse jumps, anyway, so this is all the abuse it’ll have to take.

Yuuri frowns down at the ankle as I lift it off the ice and flex it. “You’re an idiot.” The frown melts away into a wide grin. “But daaamn, Vitya.”

As if on cue, the tablet pings that Yakov is waiting in the video chat room.

Yuuri hastily shoves the tablet at me, flat against my chest so I have to grab it before it hits the ice as he backs away, both hands raised. “ _I’m_ not talking to him.”

On the screen, Yakov’s expression is thunder. “ _Victor Mikhailovich!_ ” Somewhere in the background is Yura’s unmistakable, maniacal laugh.

I sigh happily. Yakov is pissed at me, and all's right with my world.

It’s going to be a _great_ training session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: (From google translate, all mistakes are my own.)  
> Iisus (Иисус) – Jesus  
> Inu ni esa o yaranaide kudasai. – Do not feed the dog.  
> Gochisosama deshita – roughly, “thank you for the meal”  
> Ganbatte – good luck, or do your best, or hang in there  
> Taiyaki – Japanese street food, usually deep-friend, fish-shaped fish cakes  
> All other Japanese words in the chapter are self-explanatory.
> 
> Other notes:  
> Apologies for the excess fluff. Actually no, not sorry. :D
> 
> The mantra Hoshi taught Victor and Yuuri is the “Reiki Healing Principles”, and it goes like this:  
> Just for today, I will not anger.  
> Just for today, I will not worry.  
> Just for today, I will be grateful.  
> Just for today, I will work hard to the best of my ability.  
> Just for today, I will be kind to every living thing.  
> Sounds simple, doesn’t it? It isn’t. 😊
> 
> The pain Victor experiences in his rib cage is a common side-symptom of autoimmune diseases like AS and RA. Autoimmune disorders rarely occur in a vacuum; they usually run in packs. If you’ve got RA, you probably have, or will develop at some point, something like fibromyalgia, Reynaud’s Syndrome, or Hashimototo’s Thyroiditis. Fibromyalgia, or FMS, is not well understood but in a nutshell, it’s an overreaction of the nervous system, usually pain receptors. The lightest touch can be excruciating, and it can happen anywhere on the body. FMS symptoms can also include fatigue so profound, it can become disabling.
> 
> Next chapter preview: Instead of going through a healing crisis, Yuuri seems to blossom; Victor’s Reiki journey seems stuck in neutral. His training to return to competition slowly progresses. But is it enough to hold him together when the Federation springs another nasty surprise?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is now beta'ed, and I've also added a short scene and tweaked several other spots that weren't sitting well with me characterization-wise, so if you're coming back, you might want to re-read so the next chapter makes sense. :)
> 
> Huge THANK YOU to everyone who's read, kudo'ed, and commented! You give me life! (blows kisses)
> 
> And HOW ABOUT THAT TRAILER???!!! AHHHH!!!! What a birthday present!

_Obstacles to not block the path. They are the path.  
_~Unknown

CHAPTER FOURTEEN  
_Saint Petersburg_

**_Victor_ **

I throw my car in park, turn off the ignition, and lean my head back against the head rest, basking in blessed dimness and silence.

I need a different car, preferably something old and battered like Yakov’s, something no one looks at twice. My custom-painted, plum-purple BMW M4 is too easy for paparazzi to spot. Twice today they’ve cornered me—once after my photo shoot, and again on my way into the rink. The second time was my own fault, because I’d been too lost in thought to remember not to take the main entrance. Lost in a memory seared too deep in my brain to easily brush off.

It was the soft sob that had caught my attention first.

I’d taken a wrong turn leaving Dr. Sorokina’s exam room, and instead of exiting anonymously into a service hall that led directly outside, I’d wound up in the patient waiting area. Luckily it was mostly empty. As I’d made a break for the door I’d heard it, and my steps had slowed when I saw where the noise was coming from. A little girl, curled in her father’s lap. For a fleeting second, the man had raised his worry-creased, gray-blue eyes to meet mine, recognition flashing through them.

My heart had performed a heavy flip-flop in my chest. A child—a _baby_ —in the rheumatology clinic. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. Dr. S. had mentioned that anyone at any age could develop an autoimmune disease, but…I swallow hard.

Worse, instead of following my instinct to crouch beside that little ball of misery and tell her everything will be all right, I’d _panicked_. I’d torn my gaze away and _kept walking_. And by the time I’d reached the rink and blundered into the paparazzi, I was a seething mass of self-loathing and in no mood to pretend to be nice.

It’s in instances like these my face masks come in extremely handy. They let me crinkle my eyes so the heads swimming behind the cameras and microphones think I’m smiling. In fact, I can gleefully practice curses in every language I learned over years of forbidden room parties at junior competitions.

_Are you aware the Grand Prix assignments have been released, Mr. Nikiforov?_

_\--Ha! It’s all everyone’s talking about today. I haven’t had a chance to sit down and look at the schedule, though. (Vete a la mierda)_

_Do you feel prepared for your return to competition after a long year off?_

_\--My Instagram video speaks for itself, don’t you think? (Va te faire foutre.)_

_Your name hasn’t appeared as participating in the upcoming Test Skate, Mr. Nikiforov. Are you skipping the event? Why?_

_\--I haven’t made a final decision yet, but for now my first skate is planned for the Cup of Russia series. (The RSF can fuck right the hell off with that dog and pony show.)_

_Is there any substance to the rumors surrounding your health?_

_\--I don’t understand the question. (Mudak.)_

_Well, you wear a mask in public nearly all the time now, and you’ve been seen last week entering the orthopedic clinic at Leningrad General._

_\--Just taking precautions to stay healthy for my final competitive season. (Fick dich.)_

_But you were seen exiting through the internal medicine wing._

_\--It was a shortcut to my car, but you’re very kind to be concerned. I’m fine, as you’ll all see it at the Cup of Russia. Now if you’ll excuse me… (Cāo nǐ.)_

Fuck them. Fuck _them?_ Fuck _me_. I’d been shaking with fury by the time I’d found a quiet corner inside the rink to lace up.

The elephantine weight of fatigue had set in on the drive back to my condo. Now I sit for a while, staring at the concrete wall of the underground garage, leaden arms in my lap, keys dangling from my fingers. When I finally get out and sling my skate bag over my shoulder, it’s all I can do not to stagger sideways on my swollen, throbbing feet. For a long, long minute I lean against the car until I’m sure my trembling legs will carry me.

A smart man would leave everything in the car to give Yuuri an excuse to run the stairs. I am not that man.

I’ll never get used to this scooped-out, scraped-thin, chronic _tiredness_. Despite today’s good report on my bloodwork and the fact that the pain is holding to a dull thud when I land a jump, that brick wall at the end of my energy is always _right there_. My success rate in pulling back before it crashes down on me? About 50 percent.

I’d hoped to get home before Yuuri and rest long enough to be able to greet him with a happy face, maybe even start dinner for him. But when I step off the elevator and mentally coach myself through the ten steps to the door, the aroma of cooking food wafts to my nose. He’s already here.

I rest my forehead against the door for a minute before I force my back straight, insert the key and turn the knob, dredging up what’s left of my energy to call out a falsely cheerful "Tadaima!"

My smile drops away as soon as I step inside. From the entryway I can see into the kitchen as I maneuver myself and my stuff through the door. Yuuri is leaning back against the counter, watching me. Silent. Late August sun slants through the windows, highlighting the fact he’s got one arm wrapped tightly around his waist, the other hand gripping a fistful of his blue, long-sleeved t-shirt. His eyes are on me, wide and dark.

Ah.

I know this Yuuri. This Yuuri hasn’t made an appearance in a while. Not since we returned from Hasetsu a few weeks ago.

I drop my gym bag and two other plastic bags heavy with champagne and caviar that somehow hitched a ride home with me from this morning’s photo shoot. I’d politely declined to drink any of the stuff from the craft table, and if I’d sipped any from the prop glass, I’d spit it out in the bucket tucked out of sight on the set. That had earned me a few surprised stares, but no one had the bad grace to comment.

Yuuri’s eyes track my every move.

I hate the way he watches me now. Like he’s twitching at a starting line, waiting for me to show any sign of distress he can jump in and fix for me. A smart man would let him, because it makes him happy. Again, I am not that man. Especially not today.

“You should have been home hours ago,” Yuuri says, his tone flat. The tone he uses when he’d rather not pick a fight, but will wade in if necessary.

I’m acutely aware of two things. One, clouds of brain fog are fuzzing the edges of normal reasoning. Two, I absolutely don’t have it in me right now to deal with this Yuuri. The Yuuri that requires patient, loving excavation to draw out what’s eating him.

Patient, loving fiancé Victor is not in the house right now. All this Victor can think about is dragging himself to the nearest dark room with a soft mattress and collapsing, hopefully without adding to today’s shame by snapping Yuuri’s head off.

No point in dancing around it with my legendary charm, which is in tragically short supply. “I went to the rink.”

“The rink.” His tone turns glacial. “You were supposed to come home right after your doctor appointment and rest this afternoon. It’s bad enough you scheduled a photo shoot on what’s supposed to be your one day off this week.”

Irritation chips at my nerves. “That’s what happens when one jets off on an unexpected two-week trip to Japan,” I shoot back. “Down time becomes catch-up time. I can’t exactly afford to break a contract or skip another therapy or doctor appointment.”

I congratulate myself for holding my volume to a reasonable decibel.

Yuuri doesn’t flinch, but his frown deepens. I crouch to greet Makka as she ambles slowly toward me, casting worried glances over her shoulder at him. I take a deep breath and let it out. Poor old girl. She doesn’t like it when her daddies are both tired and grumpy.

She licks my face as I scrub fingers through her curly fur and murmur to her in Russian. _I’m sorry, beautiful girl. Things will get better after this season is over. I promise._

Yuuri, with his increasing understanding of my language, softens a little. With a final kiss to Makka’s nose, I place a hand on the wall next to me, an apology on my lips as I try to rise.

Something seizes in my left thigh. An unholy sound shrieks out of my throat and as I overbalance and pitch forward onto both hands, I catch sight of Yuuri jerking away from the counter and launching himself toward me.

By the time he reaches me, I’m up, but balancing on my right leg because I can’t seem to straighten the left one. Makka dances around me, a frantic bundle of whining anxiety.

Yuuri’s hands are everywhere, grasping my shoulders, stroking down my arms, one hand landing unerringly on my left hip as I instinctively dig my fingers into the lumped-up muscle.

“What is it?” His voice is low, urgent.

“Spasm,” I grit out between my teeth. “Groin? I think.”

“Can you get to the couch?”

I manage a small head shake, cheeks puffing out on a noisy breath. “I’ll just stand here a minute. It’ll pass. Ahh _fuck_.” I hate these damned charley horses. _Not enough fluids, Nikiforov. Again._

Before I can protest, he’s half carrying me across the room, one arm around my waist, the other scooped under my raised knee to keep pressure off the leg.

“Yuuri don’t _—”_ I gasp. _Blyad._ Yuuri throwing out his back on my account would certainly be the cherry on top of today’s shame sundae.

“Just as far as the couch,” he mutters through tight lips, followed quickly by, “Whenareyougoingtostarttakingcareofyourself, _ty grebanyy idiot!_ ”

I almost laugh, because it’s a measure of how angry he is that he not only cursed out loud, he did it in Russian. We lurch like we’re in a drunken three-legged race, and he manages to drop me on the couch where I curl on my side. An instant later, he’s running his hands over my hip and thigh, trying to pinpoint the source of the trouble.

“Can you straighten it?” Yuuri’s voice is so soothing and gentle, it’s almost like he wasn’t aggravated with me a minute ago.

I try, grunt through clenched teeth, and shake my head no. Any attempt to force the muscles to stretch just pisses them off more. As cramps go this one is vicious and showing no signs of letting up. The next string of curses erupts from my mouth so fast even I’m not sure which language I’m speaking.

Yuuri sits back on his heels, thinking. Then his eyes, sparking with anxiety, fly to mine. He cups my face briefly. “Hold on.” And he’s gone, disappearing into the kitchen. From here I can’t see what he’s doing, but it involves the refrigerator door opening, glass containers pinging together, metal lids clattering onto the counter top.

Now he’s back, shoving an arm behind my neck and shoulders to lift me up. “Drink this.” He jiggles a small glass half full of clear, greenish liquid in front of my face.

“What’s that?”

“Pickle juice. I overheard Mila talking about it with a couple other skaters. Something about potassium.”

“Please tell me you added vodka.”

Yuuri laughs, jiggles the glass again. “Next time. Trust me on this, okay? Knock it back.”

I can’t help but push out a laugh at the odd phrase. “Knock?”

“Five years in Detroit,” he reminds me, voice tinged with faint amusement. “Down it like a shot.”

I wrap my fingers over his on the glass, and gulp it all in one go. Squeeze my eyes shut and cough. “Definitely needs vodka.”

He grimaces. “Sorry, I had to combine brine from different jars to get enough, and one of them was spicy.”

He sets the glass aside and returns to working on loosening the rock-hard lump of muscle. His hands ignite with Reiki heat as I continue to curse quietly, as if foul language is a cure for everything.

“It feels like it’s the hip flexor,” he murmurs, letting one hot hand rest on my thigh, carding the other through my hair. “That’s a strong muscle. It’s going to hurt.”

I nod shortly. “I used to get these all the time when I was going through growth spurts. Been a while, though.” Yuuri pulls a sofa pillow closer so I can rest my head on it. I close my eyes and focus on the gentle scratch of Yuuri’s nails on my scalp.

He falls silent for so long I finally open my eyes to look up at his face hovering close.

There are tears in his eyes, sparkling behind his glasses.

I try to move, but that hip flexor clamps down again and I grit my teeth, settling for snagging his hand with my free one. “What is it, _milaya_?”

He shakes his head and quickly wipes at his eyes. “It’s just…you were alone.”

I go still. “What?”

“When you were growing up. You had no one but Yakov and Lilia. And I’m guessing you didn’t tell anyone when you were in pain.”

I suffer a quick flashback of those times I lay curled on my bed in my lonely room, biting down on the corner of a pillow until the spasms eased enough to let me to fall into exhausted sleep. I catch Yuuri’s hand away from my hair and twine my fingers with his. “I was afraid if anyone knew, I’d be deemed too weak to compete.” And probably sent away. Somewhere. Not home, because for all intents and purposes, I didn’t have one.

I shift, uncomfortable. Yuuri leans forward and gently kisses my forehead, pressing his other hand firmly against the curve of my hip, warming my skin through the fabric of my track pants, sending heat deep into flesh and, I could swear, down to bone. “Hold on,” he says. “Keep breathing. The juice will kick in in a minute.”

“Uuugh,” I groan against the pain.

Yuuri unwinds our fingers and guides my hand next to his on my hip. “Help me out with this,” he says softly, then breathes in and out with me until finally, _finally,_ the spasm eases up. As usual, my hand doesn’t heat up like his.

Relief leaves me a little shaky as I push myself to sit up. Yuuri takes my hands and guides me to sit on the floor, back supported against the couch. "Soles of your feet together, let your knees fall to the sides. No, don't push it. Gentle stretch." He assumes the same position, our knees touching and my hands held in his. His thighs touch the floor. My left one is short of that goal by several inches.

I sigh as I relax into the stretch. “It’s okay now. Better.”

For a long moment we stare at each other. Then I silently hold out my arms, and he leans into me, letting one hand fall to my thigh to massage the still-angry muscle and tendon. I prop my chin on his shaggy head.

“Next grocery order, more pickles.”

Yuuri’s shoulders shake on a quiet laugh. “Any excuse for more pickles. Luckily we’re both obsessed with them.”

“Someone’s going to leak to the press that one of us is pregnant.”

And just like that, we’re laughing, leaning on each other for support until the giddiness settles into the contentment we always seem to generate when we come together at the end of the day. We both sit up, and Yuuri beckons Makka, who curls up next to us, fuzzy butt tickling our knees.

Presently I reach out and smooth a hand over the wrinkles in Yuuri’s shirt. “So. What was this all about?”

His smile fades, hands still soothing over my sore thigh, thumbs digging into the steel-cable of my hip flexor. Sitting so close, it’s hard for him to avoid my eyes, but he gives it his best shot. “I’m worried.”

I nod, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. It’s one reason the media trailed me from pillar to post today. “The Grand Prix assignments—”

“—came out today,” he finishes, and gulps a breath, looking up into my eyes at last. “How are we going to do this? How are _you_ going to do this? Coach me and compete at the same time? None of our competitions are together.”

I open my mouth and close it. I’d looked at the assignments and my stomach had flipped at the sheer impossibility of the task I’ve taken on. Yuuri and I won’t share competition ice until the Final—if we both make it.

“It will be tough,” I understate, attempting a breezy tone I don’t feel. “But—”

“Tough? Vitya.” He leaves off my thigh, grasps my shoulders to give me a little shake. “At your healthiest, this schedule would have been a recipe for disaster. Now…you have to see that it’s dangerous. Putting your body through so much travel, training, and competing? On opposite sides of the _planet_. You won’t see anything but the inside of airplanes and ice rinks from September until January.”

“October. I’m skipping the test skates.”

He raises a brow. “That’s an option?”

I shrug. “I don’t have anything to prove. It’s basically a non-scored exhibition to get skaters in front of an audience before the real competitions begin. Besides, the Grand Prix series is less than three months long. Then there’s time until the Olympics…”

“You have to skate the Cup of Russia to qualify for Russian Nationals and get selected for the team. Then there’s Four Continents. The Olympics. Then Worlds.” Yuuri ticks them off on his fingers. “From what you told me back at Ice Castle that night, the Russian Federation isn’t going to make things easy for you. Yakov will have something to say about skipping the test skates.”

I take a breath and try to radiate confidence. “We’ll work it out.”

“But—”

“We’ll _work it out_ , Yuuri.” I try not to snap and fail.

He snaps right back. “Not if you don’t take better care of yourself.” He wraps his fingers in a handful of my shirt and gives it a frustrated tug. “Why did you go to the rink this afternoon?”

I look away and sink my fingers in the comfort of Makka’s fur. “You know that if I’m not otherwise doing something, I’m visualizing my routines in my head? I was in the exam room, waiting for Dr. S. to arrive, and…I had a weird…I blanked out.”

He blinks. “What?”

I shrug helplessly. “I don’t know how to describe it. I’d get to a certain point in the short program and…nothing. I think I panicked a little, completely forgot half the questions I wanted to ask Dr. S., and after the appointment I went straight to the rink to run it.”

Yuuri lets go of my shirt and takes both my hands in his. “How many times?”

My voice goes small. “Eight.”

“ _Vitya_.”

“But I didn’t…um…jump until the last. Um. Three?” I finish weakly.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, shifting his glasses. “Yakov?”

“He wasn’t at the rink today.”

Yuuri settles his glasses and regards me for a long moment. “If you don’t take better care of yourself, the GPF schedule will break you,” he says bluntly. “You won’t make it to the Finals. Or Russian nationals, much less the Olympics.” He softens a little, his eyes pleading. “If you want to do this, Vitya, something has to give.”

I don’t really have a comeback for that, except a stubbornly set jaw.

He makes a frustrated noise and crosses his arms, head tilted. His non-verbal version of _fight me_.

I have to suppress a smile. A year ago, he could barely look me in the eye, much less stand up to me like this.

For a moment I get lost in looking at him. If training in Russia has done anything for him, it’s in his conditioning. The long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing used to hang on him. Now it stretches across his muscled chest and shoulders, lies smoothly against his tapered waist. His thighs, always impressive, are sculpted works of art.

“I will agree to you doing this on one condition,” he states, jerking my attention away from his body.

I laugh out loud. “ _You’ll_ agree?”

“Between my competitions,” he goes on as if I haven’t spoken, “I will come to yours to take care of you.” He raises a hand against my veto before it leaves my mouth. “Or I’m retiring. Right now.”

For several long seconds, shock short-circuits my brain and English eludes me. “ _Ya_ … _nyet_. _No_. I want you to do nothing but rest and train between your competitions.”

“And you shouldn’t?”

I jab an index finger at him, pulling out the cheapest shot I can think of. “You promised me you wouldn’t retire.”

His chin juts out. “I have more stamina than you. Way more.” His eyes narrow, closing in for the kill. “Besides, if you force me to stay behind while you’re competing, what do you think I’ll be doing while you’re gone?”

I put my index finger away and study my lap. He reaches out and grasps one of my hands.

“Vitya?” Yuuri prompts, his voice gentling.

I huff out a breath. “Worrying. Not sleeping.”

“And?”

“Stress eating,” I mumble.

“And what will you be doing when you’re alone at competitions, away from your routine?”

Our thumbs dance around each other. “Probably…staying out too late.”

“And?”

“Pining for you and Makkachin. But not drinking,” I add hastily, looking up. “I know the dangers. But probably…definitely…misbehaving.”

He lets me go and runs his hot hands up and down my thighs, settling in to work on that still jumpy hip flexor. Under the gentle press of his palms, it releases and lets my left thigh almost touch the floor. “The temptation will be there, but I trust you on that.”

“I know,” I reply. “But things are different now. _I’m_ different now. Before you, I tried to fill the empty spaces with things that weren’t the best for me.”

A light brightens in his eyes at my admission. “I need my coach, Vitya,” he says softly. “I need you to be healthy. Taking care of you is my best stress reliever. Especially since I have this handy new skill.” He raises one hand, wiggling his fingers.

He’s right. In the short time we’ve been back in Russia, everyone has noticed the difference in him, on the ice and off. His face relaxed, smiling, not pinched with fatigue and self-destructive thoughts. His skating smoother, lighter, less of an obvious struggle. It’s as if the less he strives for perfection, the more his natural gift shines through. Jumps will never come easy to him, but his deep, sure edges and footwork sequences are going to make his competitors _cry_. 

I rest my forehead on his shoulder for a moment, then raise up to meet his determined brown eyes. He’s not backing down from this one. “Okay. We’ll work this out, _detka_. And I’m not just saying that to appease you. But—” I raise an admonishing finger. “All plans are tentative until your coach approves, _da_?”

“Hai.” Relief floods his expression.

“Now. What else? I know there has to be at least one more thing you’ve been chewing on.” His worries usually run in packs, like wolves snapping at his heels.

His shoulders shift. “Uh, no. It’s okay. I’m okay now.”

I duck and weave to make him meet my eyes again. “Yuuuriii…”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“Good! The quicker you unload the stupid, the better. Spill.”

He tries to look anywhere but at me. “I’m…confused. I saw the video of your press gaggle outside the rink.”

Oh, hell. “What did I say?”

An eyebrow quirks. “You don’t remember?”

I wave a hand, well aware that sometimes the words that fall out of my brain on the spur of the moment aren’t the kindest. “I was in a hurry and I just wanted them off my back. I honestly have no idea what I said. What?”

He looks down and picks at a stray thread on one of his socks. “You referred to me as skater Katsuki. Your student.”

I open my mouth. Close it.

“After Worlds, you called me—in front of everyone, even the press—your fiancé.”

Oh. I do tend to get verbose when I’m flushed with excitement.

He plows on as if in a hurry to get it all out, like ripping off a bandage. “Do you not think of me that way anymore? If not, how _do_ you think of me?” He covers his face. “Oh god, saying it out loud makes it worse. Ignore me. I sound like a hormonal teenager.”

I laugh and grab his wrists, pull them away from his flushed cheeks. “Yuuri.” I hold my own right hand next to his. “These rings are not just a good luck charm. Not to either of us.”

Chagrin twists his lips. “I know that. It’s just…”

“How your brain works when it starts down that spiral,” I finish for him. “I know. It’s okay. This is why we are trying to talk more.”

His “I’m sorry” is accompanied by a rueful grin.

“From now on, I will refer to you as skater-fiancé Katsuki. That rolls off the tongue nicely, _da_?

He rolls his eyes and rises to his feet, extending a hand to help me up. “Set the table, coach-skater-fiancé Nikiforov. Dinner is ready.”

I limp after him to the kitchen, Makka at my heels, and begin organizing place settings.

Yuuri notices my hobbling, gives my feet a pointed look, then shoots a raised eyebrow at me. He’ll be working on them later, but at this moment wisely chooses not to fuss about the way I’ve abused them today.

“ ‘Coach-skater-fiancé’ doesn’t roll as well,” I muse. “I’ll have to think of something better. Maybe lord. Master. _Sensei_?”

“Where’s that vodka again? My coach is driving me to drink.” Yuuri says tartly. He pulls a big pot out of the oven and begins ladling food into the bowls I’ve handed him. “What did the doctor say today?”

With Yuuri’s mood lifted, my own burdens seem lighter, though I’m aware the boost in energy will be short-lived. I’ll likely be face-planting in my dinner before I’m finished. “The new nutrition plan is working. I’ve regained two pounds since the last weigh-in.” Yuuri’s face relaxes into a relieved expression. Like Hiroko, he’s been worried about the bones showing under my skin.

“What did Dr. S. say about the pain in your rib cage?” He slides two large bowls across the island to the places I’ve set.

Settling into my seat, I sniff my bowl and moan. “Goulash?”

“Goulash. Yura’s grandfather passed the recipe along. It’s got noodles, but also tons of protein and vegetables, so…” he shrugs as if to indicate he’ll deal with it.

“You’re working hard enough. You can afford a few noodles.” We dig in, and with every bite of the hot food, the tension between us eases.

A few bites later, he prompts: “Your rib cage?”

I swallow the bite I was savoring, wishing with all my heart that dinner conversation didn’t involve doctor appointments and lab reports. I'd so much rather talk about what we're going to eat _tomorrow_. “The good news is, Dr. S. doesn’t think I’m crazy or a drama queen.”

“That’ll be a first.”

I pretend to threaten to fling some noodles at him off my fork. He pretends to duck. “It’s nothing to get overly concerned about. It’s another autoimmune…” I wave my free hand, “Thing. Overactive nerve endings go along with overactive immune systems. Something like that.”

Yuuri reaches out and briefly rubs my shoulder. “I don’t like the sound of that. How is it going to affect your skating? What can we do about it?”

 _We_. I tuck my chin to hide how deeply this pleases me. “There’s a medication that might help, but…” I shrug and concentrate on my very delicious food.

“But?” Yuuri prompts, putting his fork down, eyes dark and intent on me.

“I…just…don’t want to take more pills. I take enough medications already.”

He frowns. “Vitya. If it makes the pain better…”

“I looked up the side effects, and…” I shake my head vehemently. “No. I don’t want it. I’ll deal with this on my own.” I give him my best smile. “I can manage.”

Yuuri deflates a little, but nods, picking at his food. “I promised a long time ago not to push you to take any meds you don’t want. But…” He looks up with eyes that almost make me give in. “Promise me you’ll keep an open mind? If the pain gets too bad?”

I soften in the face of his care. “I will.”

His shoulders visibly relax, descending from next to his ears down to a normal position. “Good. Now. Can we stop talking and just eat?”

I laugh. “ _Da_. Communication is exhausting.” We trade weary smiles and finish our meal in peace.

Or, at least, a truce.

* * *

The next afternoon, Yakov is quiet as I step up to the boards beside him and finish getting into the layers that will keep me warm during my coaching session with Yuuri. Yuuri is already on the ice, finishing up his warm-up routine. Thirty minutes ago, I finished my coaching session with Yakov, cooled down, wolfed down lunch, and suited up properly.

Yakov mutters something as I pull on my second layer of gloves, reaches into his pocket with one hand, grabs my wrist with the other, and slaps a disposable hand warmer into my palm.

“Uh, thanks.” I slide the small packet into my pocket, ruthlessly suppressing a fond smile.

He shifts, his gaze following Yuuri’s flight across the ice. The line of Yuuri’s blades is so precise, so pure, they’re nearly soundless. “It’s been good for him. Training here.”

I lean both palms on the barrier and watch Yuuri execute a complicated series of spins, switching feet and positions as effortlessly as breathing. Many pairs of eyes follow him with envy and admiration. A few, I note, with a bit of lust. Near the door that leads to the hockey team locker rooms, a few hockey players loiter by the boards, all but drooling at his powerful back, his strong thighs, his muscular ass.

I don’t bother to hide my smirk at the memory of what I did with those thighs and that ass last night. We’ve both quickly learned there are ways to work around fatigue when your partner is single-minded about making you feel good.

Only one pair of eyes follows him with something less than admiration. Yura has abandoned his off-balance sit-spin to stand stock-still, green gaze pinned on Yuuri, brows drawn down in a scowl. Jealousy? I doubt it. Probably analyzing every push, every angle, and using those calculations to figure out how to apply them to his own wildly growing body.

I test my lace-up job by rotating my ankles, one at a time. The right one is a bit sore after my hours of practice during the morning session, though I'd tried to go easy on the hip flexor that gave me so much grief yesterday. I haven't attempted a quad since yesterday. “Hasetsu was not a terrible place to train, but here…here is better. There are fewer distractions. Home is too comfortable.”

Yakov snorts softly. “Like his mother’s cooking.” Oddly, Yakov makes no comment about which city I’m calling “home”.

I laugh, pleased that Yakov appreciates the results of Yuuri’s months of hard work. “You’ll have to visit Japan sometime. Try Hiroko's katsudon. You may never want to leave.”

“I highly doubt that,” he snorts.

We fall silent, watching as Yuuri starts a run-through of his short. I don’t need to hear the music. It flows from his body in every twist of his hips, flick of his wrist, _chack_ of his toe pick as he launches a jump. A slow grin spreads across my face. _This. I helped make this._

Presently, Yakov takes a breath as if to speak, then doesn’t. I tear my eyes off Yuuri to look at him, waiting.

When Yakov does speak, his quiet words hit a bullseye somewhere deep in my chest.

“Can you beat him?”

Oh.

I look back at Yuuri with fresh eyes, analyzing his skating with the mindset of a competitor, not a coach.

_Oh._

“Right now?” I add up the base values of Yuuri’s program in one mental column, mine in another. Last year, the only skater with a program more technically difficult than his was Jean-Jacques Leroy. This year, Yuuri’s pushing himself even harder. “No,” I admit. “Give me a month to smooth out the rough edges increase the difficulty, and…” I shrug. “Maybe.” To beat him, to even stand on the podium with him, I’ll have to skate perfectly—with a sore back, aging ankles, and a hip that will probably never again do a full turnout.

Yakov nods approvingly. “Your assessment is correct.” He turns, props an elbow on the barrier, and looks up at me steadily. “You’ve done well with him, Vitya. But you can still beat him. It all depends on how badly you want this. And how hard you want me to push you.”

I laugh. “When have you _not_ pushed me?”

Something in Yakov's face changes, and I frown at him. “Yakov?”

He glances down at his clipboard for a long moment. “I had a conversation with your doctor _._ ”

I blink at him. He waves a hand.

“I only spoke to her as a coach, I didn’t ask for any personal information.”

I tilt my head and give him a slight smile. “You do know you’re listed as next of kin. You have full access to all my medical information. You can ask her anything you want.”

I marvel at the slight coloring of his cheeks as he pauses, choosing his words carefully. “She said to do nothing different. Push you until you tell me you’ve had enough. But there’s the problem.” He sighs heavily. “She doesn’t know you like I do. You can be lazy, stubborn as a mule, unfocused as hell. But once you dig in, you don’t know when enough is enough.” He purses his lips, then his next words land like stones in water. “I think you've reached that tipping point. I don’t want to see you permanently injured in pursuit of a goal you’ve already won.”

I open my mouth, but he lays a hand on my arm to silence me. “You already have Olympic gold, Vitya. You've won every competition there is to win, multiple times. Are you aiming for another Olympics for yourself? Or because you think Yuuri needs you on the ice to motivate him?”

We turn together to watch Yuuri for a minute. I shake my head. “Last year, I stepped away because I couldn’t imagine anything… _more_. But then I saw him.” I nod in Yuuri’s direction. “He...changed everything. Changed me. He made me want to keep going. Keep competing. Rekindled that fire, you know?” My words come slower now, because I’m only now putting these thoughts together in any coherent order. “I want this, Yakov. I want one more Olympic medal. So when I step off the ice for the last time it'll be for something I never had before Yuuri. A vision _he_ gave me of a life beyond the ice.”

Yuuri launches a supremely difficult triple axel/quad toe combination. He lands it two-footed, spraying ice chips in all directions, but upright. He shoots me a comical, bug-eyed expression, smacking both hands to his cheeks, then whirls away to continue the routine.

I laugh out loud, because not so long ago, an imperfect landing like that would have left Yuuri brooding for days. Even Yakov almost smiles, then turns his attention to Yura at the far end of the rink. Sighs as if girding himself for battle.

“You’re in session with Yura, next?”

Yakov’s only reply is a grunt.

“How’s he doing?” I know _what_ he’s doing—I see him skate nearly every day—but he doesn’t come around to hang out at the condo very often any more, and he’s never confided in anyone easily.

Yakov shrugs a shoulder and says, as calmly as if he’s discussing the weather, “He won’t beat Yuuri this year.”

I frown. “That bad, is it?”

“He’s grown four inches since Worlds, and still going. He isn't adjusting to it as quickly as you did. He's fighting too hard. Getting him to step back and take the time to relearn everything he thinks he already knows has been...a trial.”

“Ouch.” I remember well the pain and awkwardness of relearning how to move in my own body.

Yakov briskly adjusts his gloves. “He’ll come through it, but barring a miracle this will be a rebuilding year for him. But,” Yakov straightens away from the barrier and squares his shoulders, “you didn’t hear it from me.”

Across the rink, Yura is standing stock-still, fists on his hips, glaring at us. “Hey! You two geezers stop talking about me!”

Yakov sighs and pinches his nose. Yuuri, who’s just swooping into his finishing pose, trips and does a complicated toe-pick dance to right himself. Instead of frowning in annoyance, though, he glances worriedly at Yura, then sends me a questioning raised eyebrow. I shrug and wave to tell him wordlessly to let it go.

Then, feeling as round and waddly as a penguin, I step through the barrier, onto the ice to join my skater-fiancé. Yuuri looks me up and down and turns away quickly, but not before I see his grin. Yura doesn't bother to stifle his snort.

Wondering what’s so funny, I look down at myself…and realize, from my knit hat to my puffer coat to my insulated pants, I’m dressed pretty much like Yakov.

* * *

We’re twenty minutes into our coaching session when the rink’s loudspeakers blare to life.

“Attention. Attention,” the anonymous male voice booms across the space. “As of now, the afternoon session is canceled. Your ice time will be rescheduled at no additional charge. Please clear the ice.” A brief pause, then. “Skater Nikiforov, skater Nikiforov, please meet with your coach immediately.”

Yuuri finishes his combination spin and sends me a confused look, gloving sweat off his forehead. He’s been working on his Russian, so he got the gist of the announcement. “What’s going on?”

I sweep my gaze round the rink, automatically searching for Yakov as chattering, muttering skaters obediently herd toward the exits. I find him barreling down the sidelines, gesturing at me to join him at the boards. Yura, towering over him in his skates, is in hot pursuit.

As Yuuri and I skid to a halt by the boards, Yakov rolls his eyes as if accepting the fact that Yuuri and Yura are part of the package.

Yuuri pulls at my sleeve. “Vitya, look.”

I look where he’s pointedly tilting his head to find a group of about eight or nine people in business attire trooping in through the main doors. Recognizing several faces, I turn my back as casually—but as quickly—as I can. Three of them are representatives from the Russian Nationals competition's biggest sponsors. The others wear the unmistakable lapel pins of the Russian Skating Federation, only three of whom I’ve met personally. One of them—Denis Oblonsky—is wearing a smirk that makes my stomach drop.

It’s no secret he was not happy about the damage control he had to run after I’d walked out of that press conference at the Belmond Hotel. And now I wonder if I’m about to be spanked for that, and for what the RSF views as my defection from Russian skating last year.

“Yakov?” It’s an effort to hold my voice down to a low murmur. “What the hell is going on?”

“I was just handed a note from Oblonsky,” he growls, “that said only to get you ready to skate.”

“Skate?”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Yura snarls. But, incredibly, subsides under the weight of both Yakov and Yuuri’s hard, don’t-make-this-worse stares. He crosses his arms and settles for smirking at the newcomers, who are already starting to shiver and blow on their hands. Because apparently none of them realized how cold an _ice rink_ is.

Yakov briefly grabs my hand, which is clenched on top of the boards, as Oblonsky strolls toward us. The rest of his entourage is settling into bleacher seats, a few of them chattering excitedly as if anticipating a show.

My blood turns as cold as the ice under my feet.

Yuuri turns his body so he’s between me and Oblonsky, blocking the man’s view of my face. He grabs my shoulder and digs fingers in. “Breathe,” he says quietly, and I obey as his palm transmits heat through several layers of my clothing. I close my eyes for a second and drink it in.

Yakov pulls away and strides toward the RSF representative, intent on intercepting him before he gets too close. As the two confer for a few minutes, I hear nothing, but observe Yakov’s hands slowly clenching into fists behind his back. Then they both turn to approach me.

With a final squeeze, Yuuri lets go of my shoulder and backs off, hooking a hand around Yura’s elbow to pull him along the boards until they’re a respectful distance away.

“I apologize for the interruption,” Oblonsky says in a tone that says he really doesn't care. “It was the only day our schedules aligned so we could drop in for a friendly visit.”

Yura’s cough, from thirty feet away, sounds suspiciously like a _fignya._ It only succeeds in attracting Oblonsky's attention, and his gaze settles on Yuuri, who pulls himself up tall and straight, refusing to be intimidated. I tuck my chin to hide a smile. There's color on his cheeks, but I know every inch of Yuuri's skin now. It's not a blush.

"Ah, if it isn't Victor's pet project." His English is smooth, but edged with acid. "Skater Katsuki. What a treat to find you here, as well. I do hope you're finding our Russian training facilities to your liking." He waves a hand in the air, indicating the building in question. Yura bristles, but I catch his eye and shake my head. _Wait._

Bred-to-the-bone polite, Yuuri offers a bow shallow enough, in Japan, to be considered rude. Behind the glasses he's put back on, his expression is earnest, but his eyes glint fire. "For the price of the ice time, I expect the best. Sir." he says softly, _in Russian_ , which sends Oblonsky's scant eyebrows soaring toward his receding hairline. Yuuri quickly sketches another contemptuous, barely-there bow, murmuring something so swift and soft I almost miss it. Oblonsky clearly thinks it's some form of Japanese compliment, and nods back as if accepting his due.

I nearly swallow my tongue. Did just say _kuso shite shine_?

Yakov shoots me a confused look, mouthing, _What did he just say?_ I can only shake my head at him frantically.

Yura, who knows every colorful curse in every language spoken at international competitions, chokes on the water he just swallowed. Which only succeeds in attracting Oblonsky's attention.

"And _you_ , Mr. Plisetsky." The man zeros in on Yura, whose eyes narrow above flushed cheeks. "Such a growth spurt this year." He clucks his tongue pityingly. Yura wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles dangerously.

“Get to the point.” Yakov cuts in before Yura can throw a verbal grenade on his career.

“Yes. Of course.” Oblonsky clasps his hands behind his back, pleasantries dropping away as he turns to me. “We’re here simply to evaluate your progress toward getting back into competition form, Victor. Especially since it has come to our attention you are not entered in next month’s test skate.”

I affect a patient smile. “I wasn’t aware it was a requirement.”

Oblonsky agrees with a head tilt. “You’ve been away from competition for over a year, Victor. And, I understand, you are aiming for one more Olympic appearance.”

“It was a much-needed sabbatical," I say warmly, media smile blazing. "I still have much to offer the sport, and I'm ready to compete, as I did at Worlds. And medaled.”

“At _our_ invitation,” he reminds me, his eyes hardening. “That one _bronze medal_ in no way proves you are ready to represent Russia for the upcoming season. Especially in light of rumors surrounding your health.”

Anger flashes through my body. I can feel Yuuri’s gaze boring into my back, a loving plea not to let him get to me. I lean in with the sincerest look on my face I can muster, as if including him in a secret. “As a 28-year-old athlete who's been competing non-stop for twenty years, I’m facing some challenges. But I will be ready.” I fantasize what it would feel like to plant my fist on his face. I smile wider.

Oblonsky claps his hands, looking pleased. “Good! Then I’m sure you won’t mind giving us a preview of one of your programs this season. Just to reassure the federation and,” he waves toward the people in the stands, and a couple of them wave back, “a few of our very generous and faithful competition sponsors, who just happened to be in Moscow this week. I thought it would be a nice gesture to bring them along today, as they have a vested interest in the success of your comeback, yes?”

Yakov moves closer, his voice dropping. “This is unnecessary and unfair, and you know it, Denis. To put a veteran and decorated skater like Viktor through this...this...”

"Dog and pony show?" I supply helpfully. Yuuri gives Yura shove before he completely loses it.

Oblonsky’s smile disappears. “The federation sees it differently, due to what _we_ view as your unprofessional and erratic behavior over the past year. Surely you don't expect to waltz in and out of competitive status on a whim as if the rules don't apply to you.” He straightens his cuffs and draws himself to his full height, which doesn’t quite top Yakov and is well below mine, Yuuri's, and Yura's on our skates. He notices, and puffs out his chest to compensate.

“If you wish to compete this season, Mr. Nikiforov, you will skate. Right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Victor's behind-the-mask swear words are in, respectively, Spanish, French, Russian, German, and Chinese.  
> The epithet Yuuri uttered is, in a nutshell, "eat sh!t and die."  
> Fignya: bullshit
> 
> As I may have mentioned before, autoimmune diseases can strike at any age, from infancy to elderly. The chest pain Victor is experiencing is called "costochondritis", inflammation of the cartilage in the rib cage. The pain can be so intense at times, patients fear they're having a heart attack.
> 
> The muscle spasm scene is based loosely on [this lovely art](https://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/post/175723095172/by-kamabokotr-kamabokotr-pixiv-id-881037) by @kamabokotr.
> 
> Next time: Victor battles for his skating life.


End file.
